


Until the Silences Echo

by a_dusky_gold



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angsty Schmoop, Author loves to chat in the Comments, Big Sister Feels, Childhood Trauma, Dad!Dean, Drug Busts, Drug Use, Drugs, Family Feels, Family Fluff (eventually), Flashbacks, Gen, Graphic Description, Heavy Angst, High School Student Sam, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kid Fic, Like really slow, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Mute!Claire, Mute!Sam (past), On the Run, POV Third Person Limited, Panic Attacks, Past Anna Milton/Dean Winchester, Past Castiel/Meg Masters, Past Drug Addiction, Protective Gabriel, Sign Language, Slow Burn, Teacher Castiel, Trauma Recovery, Trigger Warnings, big brother feels, dad!Cas, daddy!destiel, mafia, plot heavy, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 16:00:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 131,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8333701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_dusky_gold/pseuds/a_dusky_gold
Summary: There is a silence that echoes so loudly that you can hear it.Dean Winchester thought he and Sammy had overcome it, believed that the silent spaces between himself and his brother would never again echo with the regrets and the consequences of the past. He was wrong. Castiel Novak is a man on the run from a past that refuses to stop following him. His prime edict - keep his girls safe, keep them alive and keep them happy. Can two drowning souls, struggling to keep their heads above water, offer one another salvation? Can they build something beautiful with the broken pieces of their pasts? Or will the silence become loud enough to deafen them once and for all?ON HIATUS, WILL BE BACK SOON (Updates/info on Tumblr)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, instead of working on my assignments, I'm sitting in my office and working on this story that just would not leave me alone. Oh well, fuck grad school.
> 
> A HUGE thank you to my beta of all times - Baya-the-dragon, who made me write and rewrite and rererewrite it until it turned out as good as it did! Bee, you rock! Also, big hugs to my beloved cheerleaders - RuDog, Aej and Rodrulz, who never fail to tell me when my work sucks and when they'd like to kick my brain's ass. Love ya'll, my bitches!
> 
> Word of warning - this story is, in essence, a drug-bust and mafia take-down, which means that there will be graphic depictions of violence. There are trigger warnings involved; please heed the chapter beginnings to make sure you know what you're in for! Trauma plays a very big role in this story, as does trauma recovery, but the violence is in the background and it's more of a memory than anything else, so do heed the tags.
> 
> It isn't as dark as it sounds, I swear! :P
> 
> UPDATE 6th Feb - So I've realized from the comments that I may have been a bit lax in the warnings and letting my readers know. A LOT of bad shit goes down in this story; as I've mentioned earlier, it's a drug bust and a mafia takedown, which means that there's violence and gore. But I'm not dealing with the actual moments of violence directly - I'm dealing with the AFTERMATH, which means that there's gonna be a lot of trauma and angst, which is why the buildup is slow. I will be putting up trigger warnings at the head of each chapter, and I'll also be adding a chapter summary which should hopefully help!
> 
> That said, as angsty as it is, I'm a definite believer of happy endings and fluffy family feels, so the second half is going to be entirely schmoop and family puppy piles, so hang in there! Writing this story is a cathartic process for me, but it IS painful, which is why I do it only once in two weeks. So take a break - don't read it at one go, take it bit by bit and I promise the end will make you smile and go AAAWWWW... Enjoy!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER - Graphic descriptions of torture, blood, knives, nails, sexual abuse and assault, talk of drug use, death and murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anna is tortured; Gabriel rushes to save her in vain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER - Graphic descriptions of torture, blood, knives, nails, sexual abuse and assault, talk of drug use, death and murder

**Prologue**

 

There is a silence that is so loud that it echoes.

 

It is that silence that surrounds her now, keeping her awake and aware, when she should have been unconscious.

 

All around her, there is the thick, metallic smell of the blood. It permeates even this silence, cloying at her nostrils until she is ready to vomit. Some of it is her own blood – it dripped down the edges of her skin, making her itch horribly. She was unable to scratch it then, tied up as she was, as she _still_ is. The blood has dried now, but the smell remains, a powerful reminder of her plight.

 

The walls of the warehouse are a patchwork quilt of both fresh and dried blood; the patterns criss-cross, the dried brown and the fresh red chasing each other across the dilapidated golden brown of the wood. The rays of the dying sun light up the entire warehouse – a sickening, orange color that reminds her of rotting fruit. _How can color be rotting fruit?_ she wonders whimsically, and shuts her eyes against the strange musings of her pain-addled mind.

 

There is the silence again. It is so loud, she cannot hear anything. It toys with her senses, messes with her brain and all she wants is to beg – _beg_ – to be let go, to go home back to her baby girl and –

 

_Her baby girl._

 

Her heart clenches and she shakes where she is tied up, spread out, with her arms and legs tied to the circular board. Her palms burn where they have been nailed to the wood – she screamed, she recalls dazedly, screamed louder than she has _ever_ before, even during childbirth… because during childbirth, her baby brother held that very hand and allowed her to squeeze as hard as she needed.

 

There was no one when the nail when straight through, piercing through her skin to stick her to the wood as firmly as her captors could make it.

 

She is being _crucified_ alive – both her hands are nailed to the board – and she is dressed in nothing but a flimsy sports bra and her panties. Her entire body is numb and she feels nothing, not anymore.

 

The silence is getting louder as the seconds pass; her breath comes so slowly now and she can feel the darkness creep up on her, just waiting to pounce and take her away. But not yet… not quite yet, and not before she can thwart the men in front of her.

 

Her soft gasps and breaths are the only things she can hear apart from the silence itself. With an inhuman effort, she raises her head to meet the eyes of the man who raised her, who taught her and who is both her brother and her captor. Hazel eyes meet dark ones.

 

A normal man might have quailed under the force of so strong a glare. Indeed, a _normal_ man would not have his younger sister hung up as such and tortured for hours to gather information.

 

Lucifer Novak is not – and will never be – a mere, ordinary man. Neither will the man next to him, for there is nothing Alistair enjoys more than the sounds of the loud, pained screams.

 

For a long moment, both men simply stand there, staring at her as she glares back at them. This must end sooner or later, she knows – she hopes it is sooner, for she doesn’t know if she has the strength to continue this. The silence brings with it the darkness and _god_ , all she wants is to close her eyes and give in to it. But she resists – _oh,_ she resists – the images of her baby girl, her baby brother and her niece burning bright behind her eyelids every time she closes them.

 

“You were beautiful once, Anna,” Lucifer speaks at last, his coarse voice carrying across the loud silence to the little sister he once raised. And she _was_. Before he caught her, before Alistair cut into her with his blasted knives, before she was carved like a turkey at their Thanksgiving dinners. With her soft, pale skin and her long, gorgeous hair that glowed the color of the rising sun, she was once beautiful. Now that pale skin is dotted with blood… blood that is a darker, meaner red than her hair ever was.

 

Now, she is but a sacrifice, a female Christ, given the way she is hung on the crossboard. _It doesn’t matter_ , she thinks _, if_ **_I_ ** _die… but my family…_

 

“Tell me, Anna,” Lucifer’s voice is soft and unhurried and Alistair grins from behind him, his eyes wide and pupils blown. There is a strong tent in his pants, Anna can see, and it sickens her – the man is _aroused_ at the sight of her pain. In another time – what seems like eons ago now – she would have punched his face and then taken him down with a single swipe of her leg. Now she lays – _laid_ – helpless, as he carved into her skin disturbing lines and runes of his own making, the ramblings of a madman.

 

“Tell me,” her elder brother repeats and she focuses on his speech; the silence presses in with the darkness and she can barely hang on. “Anna, m’dear, it doesn’t have to end like this." His voice is soft, cajoling and if she tries hard enough, she can almost imagine him to be ten years younger and trying to convince her to go to bed.

 

She didn’t listen to him then – why should she now?

 

“Just tell me what I want to know, sweetheart,” he almost begs. Anna’s heart clenches; if she didn’t know him as well as she does, she would believe his lies to be the truth. She _did_ once believe his lies to be the truth.

 

She knows better now.

 

Behind him, Alistair gives a tiny a moan as he reaches down to the front of his pants and strokes himself slowly. The tent grows, bulging obscenely, and Anna tastes bile on her tongue for all that she has not eaten anything in more than thirty-six hours.

 

“I raised you, my girl,” Lucifer continues, and takes a single step towards her; she is distracted at the sight of his shoes, shining bright in the dying light. _He polished his shoes to come torture me_ , she thinks whimsically, and has the hysterical urge to laugh. Her throat burns, and she blinks away the tears, refusing to show weakness.

 

“I taught you to ride a bike and I taught you how to tie your shoelaces. Come, my dear, there is no need for this hostility.”

 

“You-you also…taught me to kill,” Anna rasps. Her voice is hoarse; she has not used it for anything but to scream in the past two days. In a distant corner of her mind, she wonders if it will ever get better – will she ever be able to sing her daughter to sleep again?

 

 _Blackbird singing in the dead of the night…_ her heart aches and she cannot stop the single tear that rolls down her cheek, not this time.

 

“I made you strong, Anna,” Lucifer retorts, coming to a stop right in front of her. She can see the golden flecks of light in his eyes, cast by the evening sun. It stuns her, that _this_ is Lucifer; how did it come to this? How did everything spin so out of control, with brother fighting brother, brother killing sister? How, how, _why?_

 

As if to answer her wordless plea to the universe, Alistair groans from behind Lucifer. From the corner of her eye, she sees that he is now rubbing his pants vigorously; she has to swallow hard to keep from retching out what little is there in her stomach.

 

“You made me a fucking murderer,” she spits out at Lucifer instead, trying to ignore the broken gasps that come from the Novak family’s best interrogator.

 

“Death is part of life, Anna,” he responds, raising a hand gently to her face. She flinches as he leans in to slowly trace the length of her cheek, rubbing his thumb across her chin as he used to so long ago when she was just a little girl and scared of storms. She can feel his breath hot on her face and god help her, the smell of his masculine cologne is filling her nostrils, better than the cloying, sweet stink of blood. She inhales deeply, closing her eyes and wishing she is anywhere but here.

 

“ _Death_ is natural, Lucifer,” she tells him softly, tiredly. This is an old argument, one they have hashed again and again in all their years as siblings, and she feels an absurd, acrid laugh bubble past the lump in her throat that they would be having it again, here and now, when she is almost naked and literally being crucified – _by_ him, no less.

 

“But murder is not,” she opens her eyes to meet his gaze squarely. There is strength in her glare, she knows, strength and conviction; she may be the one strung up and tortured but her beliefs have not changed since she left and she has never been one to be quiet in the face of injustice.

 

“The strong kill the weak,” he murmurs, fingers trailing across her skin to gently wrap around her neck. His eyes bore into hers, so familiar and yet, so utterly alien, as his hand presses down, putting just enough pressure to tell her who is in charge.

 

Lucifer always has been a bully, after all.

 

She gasps in pain, squeezing her eyes shut, breaths coming out in aching rasps. For a moment, the darkness presses in, angry and silent and ready to take her away. Then, the pressure on her throat decreases, letting her draw in a deep, grateful breath. It doesn’t help – the stink of blood is all that fills her lungs – but it gives her the reprieve she so desperately needs.

 

“You…you,” she pants, mouth open and tired, a single line of saliva dripping down the side of her lips. It itches but she can hardly move to wipe it away. Instead, she gathers what little is there left in her dry mouth and spits – right at his shoes, at those polished marvels.

 

“You call… that _strength_ ?” she snaps. “That was always your problem, brother. You… you never understood that strength means _protecting_ the innocent, not hurting them.”

 

He has stepped back, and regards her with narrowed eyes. Behind him, Alistair has stopped masturbating in earnest, instead moving his hand down to give his cock the occasional lazy stroke as he observes the two siblings with wide, lust-filled eyes.

 

“I protected _you_ once, Anna,” he tells her. “It was my job as your big brother.” He turns then, walking back deliberately, his back to her.

 

And Anna is suddenly so, _so_ tired. The silence grows and grows, pressing down on her until she can barely breathe. Even the sharp click-click of Lucifer’s well-polished shoes on the ground cannot displace it.

 

Her arms ache from being strung up for so long; she can feel the rusted iron in the middle of her palm where the nail pins her to the board. How much longer must she keep this up? _God_ , all she wants is her family… the warmth of her brother’s hug, the butterfly kisses of her niece’s eyelashes and the baby-soft skin of her newborn baby girl…

 

“You _left_ me,” Lucifer’s statement is strong, and in it, she is startled to hear pain. Her eyes fly open and she pushes the darkness away as she tries to focus on him. He is standing next to Alistair again, watching her with something she would describe as regret if she didn’t know him any better. Alistair picks up the knife on the table next to him now and gently runs the flat side over his belly, shivering and giggling madly, grey eyes gleaming with disturbing intent.

 

“I left the _family_ ,” she counters harshly, “I left all of you.”

 

“You denied your heritage as a Novak, Anna,” he points out. “Novaks are predators, strong and powerful and you…”

 

“Am a _Milton_ ,” she tells him fiercely. “My name, you dumb fuck, is Anna _Milton_ , not Novak. I was not one of you and I never will be.”

 

“We raised you!” Lucifer loses his cool then. He roars, his anger leaving him shaking and trembling. “We raised you and gave you a home!”

 

“You took me in because you had no choice,” she responds. “But that accursed mansion was never a home, Luci.”

 

She sneers the last bit, a nickname given to him by another brother who is long gone, who left him just as much as she did. She hopes the jab hurts, but god-fucking- _dammit_ , she _left_ and she never wanted to return.

 

For a long moment, there is nothing but the silence again as he glares at her furiously, form trembling with the effort to remain calm. Then, with a visible swallow, he purses his lips and then walks towards her again, his pace rapid and fast this time.

 

“Even as you say then, Ms. _Milton_ ,” he hisses in her face. “You are not a Novak, and I am no longer your brother. I have no qualms about doing _this_ -”  he pushes the dagger into her abdomen, the cold blade burning hot as it sinks into her already torn up flesh. “-to a stranger.”

 

She _screams_ then, as he twists the knife inside her belly, one powerful palm pressing down on the bare skin of her hip, worrying the crisscross patterns of the cuts there. The stab is not deep; she can feel the tip of the cold-hot blade in her gut, almost caressing her insides, but never quite plunging in.  Alistair, from behind him laughs shrilly, enjoying her pain as nothing else. His breaths come faster now as he edges closer to his climax, and he slips a hand into his pants to feel his cock standing erect, hard as a rock, even as she cries once again, her voice anguished and pained.

 

 _Blackbird singing in the dead of the night… take these broken wings and learn to fly… Oh god, baby girl,_ she screams internally. _I’m sorry… I'm so,_ **_so_ ** _sorry._

 

It is only now that Alistair speaks. “If we found _you_ , Ms. Milton, it won’t take long to find your daughter.”

 

Her heart stops and she goes still. _No, no, no-no! Not my baby… no, fucking_ **_no_ ** _!_

 

“Lea-leave her…fucking…alone!” she rasps. She cannot breathe; her world narrows to the pinprick of Lucifer's now-soiled shoes as her chest tightens in fear. Fuck, her daughter... her brother - _Cassie-no-the girls-_  

 

“And from there, how long do you think it will take to find your husband? Anybody else you care for?”

 

Husband?

 

 _Husband…_ her breaths slow, her heart jumping to her throat, even as the truth sinks in. She shakes, from fear, panic and the sudden relief that pounds through her veins, the emotion making her dizzy.

 

They-they think… _she’s married_?

 

Her baby is safe then. They don’t know _anything_.

 

Despite herself, a smile curves her lips.

 

It does not go unnoticed.

 

“Make no mistake, Anna,” Lucifer tells her coldly. “I _will_ kill your daughter and your husband and anyone else in your family.”

 

It’s a bluff, she knows. A fucking _bluff_ , because the only way they could know about her baby girl is the photograph she carries with her. Because she is sure as _hell_ not married, and she took every step to keep her family hidden. It was sheer, dumb _luck_ they found her.

 

She laughs loudly, the sound little more than a weak whimper in the wake of the knife stuck in her belly. She was stupid, fuck it all, she was _stupid_ to return to this god forsaken city, but her baby – her family – is still safe. And with that knowledge, she meets Lucifer’s eyes squarely, grinning at him. Even Alistair’s furious growl cannot frighten her now.

 

_Cassie... the girls... oh thank god..._

 

“Tell me where you hid the Sword,” Lucifer demands. She whimpers as he yanks the dagger out, moving it over her body to rest it on her cheek, the red smears blending in almost artfully with the dull scarlet of her hair as it hangs limply over her sides.

 

She doesn’t say anything, the darkness now at the edges of her vision, panting softly.

 

He leans in, rubs the blood from her cheek and presses a harsh kiss to her forehead.

 

“Tell me, Anna-Banana,” he cajoles, using a long-ago name, taunting her. “Tell me, and this can end, right here and now.” His hands close over her neck once again, as if to prove his point and he squeezes the lightest bit before he releases her and steps back.

 

Her eyes, clenched shut in pain, open slowly, the hazel orbs glazed in pain. She stares at him blankly for a long moment. Then –

 

“Bite me, Luci,” she spits, albeit weakly.

 

He sighs, stepping back and raises a finger, running over the edge of the red-coated knife. Shaking his head, he leans in to kiss her forehead a second time; she flinches away from his touch, ignoring the thousand pins and needles biting into her skin at the action.

 

“I protected you as long as I could, Anna,” he mutters. “But this…this _you_ chose. Even I could not keep you safe from this.”

 

“You really are the fucking devil, Lucifer Novak,” she hisses at him.

 

He regards her for a long moment, then steps back. With a light shake of his head, he tells her, “I _am_ sorry, Anna… sorry it had to come to this. I shall pray for your soul.”

 

With that, he turns and walks away, pausing next to the widely grinning Alistair to place a harsh hand on shoulders trembling in excitement.

 

“Don’t take too long with her, Alistair,” his voice contains a quiet warning, one she has heard too many times to count in her youth. And it works on Alistair the same as it used to on his many other lackeys – the interrogator visibly flinches and nods his acquiescence. Without another word, the brother who practically raised her walks away, refusing to turn back even once, his stance proud and tall and unforgiving.

 

Alistair laughs then, stepping out of his pants to give her full view of his excitement. Anna feels the terror clog her throat now; pain – pain, she can take but _this_ … no, no, _no, fucking no!_

 

“Shall we get started then, my dear?” he asks conversationally, walking towards her, a predatory grin on his face. His cock stands proud and erect, precome beading the tip as he rubs it intently, his eyes never leaving her face.

 

The darkness dances at the edges of her vision and she is suddenly blind from the rattled tears that fill her bloodshot eyes. _God, no, please, please, please-not this,_ **_anything_ ** _else, not..._

 

She trembles and Alistair laughs, cradling the knife like a lover and moves in close to her; she can feel his arousal press in to the still bleeding wound Lucifer inflicted on her and the pain _– fuck_ , the pain – drives home what is about to happen to her.

 

She whimpers and this time, can't help the broken words flying out of her mouth.

  
“No-no no no, not this, please, pl-please… do-don’t, _please_ \- “

 

He rubs himself against her, the garbled words exciting him even more. In a quick motion, he flicks the knife and sinks into the other side of her hip, as though balancing out Lucifer’s work.

 

Anna can't hold it in anymore.

 

She screams.

 

_Loudly._

 

*-*-*

 

Gabriel _runs_.

 

He runs faster than he has ever run before, including the one time he was running away from Michael, who chased him for stealing his .45. _God_ , they had messed up childhoods, learning to use guns at the shooting range instead of running around in parks like normal kids.

 

Normal kids don’t have to worry about hiding away from their families. Normal kids don’t have to be worried about being tortured to death for walking out on their homes.

 

Normal kids don’t fake their deaths and they don’t have to keep looking over their shoulders for fear of being captured and murdered.

 

Oh god, _Anna_ … his little Anna, who is as much his daughter as she his sister. Anna, Anna, **_Anna_ ** _..._

 

 _I’m coming, baby,_ he thinks, pumping his feet, cursing his short stature for holding him back. The warehouse is just up ahead and he dashes into the alleyway behind it, pulling out his binoculars to discreetly check that it is abandoned. He can see no one, and inching closer, he yanks the thermal scanner out of his pocket, thanking the black market for having all kinds of shady things available. It was pricey, but worth it – he sees that there is no one inside the warehouse, except for one lone form lying prone on the ground.

 

_Anna._

 

Throwing caution to the wind, he rushes ahead, yanking the door open and striding in.

 

He stops in his tracks, taking in the sight before him.

 

Anna lies there, prone on the ground, spread eagled, hands and feet thrown apart. Blood coats almost every visible inch of her, the red color turning a sickening brown already in the night, and he almost misses the fact that she is absolutely naked, her long hair spread out behind her on the wooden croassboard.

 

And it is then that he notices. Her palms – the skin torn clear through to reveal bone – is fucking _nailed_ to the board.

 

She was **_crucified_ **.

 

Bile coats the insides of his mouth and before he knows it, he is on his knees, vomiting the little lunch he had. His eyes burn, as does the back of his throat and he spits the bitter taste out of his mouth, before he takes a tentative step towards her.

 

No, fucking god damn hell, no, fuck this, no, she _can't_ be –

 

A small, wrecked moan shatters the heavy silence, and his heart breaks with it.

 

_Fuck it all, she is alive._

 

And he runs to her, garbled words falling out of his mouth.

 

“An-Anna, baby, I'm here, Anna, don’t, it’s alright, I’m _sorry_ , I'm so- _so_ sorry- I-I…” he falls to his knees next to her, gently reaching out with trembling arms to touch her blood-spattered face. It is wrong, so fucking _wrong_ to see her like this – the only red on her face should be the glowing crimson of her long, silky hair, not the cloying, sticky blood.

 

“Anna, sweetheart, it’s going to be okay, I’m here, I’m _here_ , now, I’m-” she won’t survive, he knows it instantly, _knows_ and fucking rages against it, because, god _fuck_ it all, this is his baby sister and he can _not_ lose her.

 

“Ga-Gabe…” her soft rasp cuts into his strangled moans and he quickly unbuttons his shirt to wrap it around her tattered, naked form. How, _how_ could he have failed her _so_ badly? He was her goddamned big _brother_ ; he should have _protected_ her, made her _safe_ , made sure she is _happy_ and –

 

“You-you’re here,” and fucking fuck, she can _still_ offer him that sweet smile, so reminiscent of their childhood when he would be late to pick her up from school and apologize profusely.

 

“Yeah, Anna-Banana,” he whispers, “I’m here.”

 

Her smile widens sleepily, his special name for her lighting up her tired eyes. The silence presses in on them like he has never heard before and he swears he can hear it, the way his heart thuds _. How can it still beat_ , he wonders sardonically, _when it has already been broken so?_ He failed, again, and his entire being _thrums_ with barely suppressed fury.

 

“Em-Emma,” she breathes, swallowing with difficulty and struggling to raise her head. He leans in and tenderly supports her neck as he guides her to the crook of his shoulder, wincing as she whimpers in pain when his fingers brush against a few of the open cuts on her skin. God, is there a place where she _isn’t_ wounded and bleeding from? Fucking Alistair, he will fucking _murder_ that son of bitch, _rip_ his insides apart –

 

“Ga-Gabe? Promise… protect Em-Emma…” Anna’s voice is pleading, tired and so, so weak, Gabriel can no longer stop the burning in his eyes from spilling over into tears that slide down the length of his stubbled cheeks.

 

“I’ll keep her safe, Anna,” he vows. “Emma is going to be just fine. As are you… the little squirt needs her Mommy.”

 

His voice catches on the last word as Anna offers him a weakened chuckle. It turns into a light cough and she spits out blood, mewling softly in pain. They both know she is not going to live beyond this night; she has lost too much blood and the nearest hospital is too fucking far away.

 

“A-and… Cas-Cas and Claire,” she mumbles into his shirt. “Keep… kee-keep them safe.”

 

“I will, Anna,” he tell her quietly, “I will keep them _all_ safe, I swear to you.”

 

“Promise?” her voice sound like she is seven years old again and asking him to keep her safe from the storm. His entire form shakes from the force of holding back his cries and the quiet tears drip into her dull, sweat and blood matted hair as he rocks her back and forth in the cradle of his arms.

 

“I promise, Anna-Banana,” he murmurs, “I promise. I will do everything I can to make sure they’re safe. _Everything_.”

 

She nods into his neck and he can feel something hot and wet seep into his bare skin. It isn’t blood, he knows, and he strokes her hair to give her what comfort he can.

 

“Ga-Gabe?” god, his baby sister is dying, and there is nothing he can do. Why, why, _why?_

 

“I’m here, baby,” he assures her dropping a sweet kiss to her forehead, ignoring the blood that smears across his own cheek as he does so.

 

“Can… can you…” she falls quiet, breathing heavily, and he pulls away the lightest bit to look into her bloodshot, glazed eyes.

 

“Can I what, Anna?” he asks softly. “One time offer kid – you can ask me anything and get away with it.”

 

His attempt to make her smile works; her lips curve upward even in the face of the silent darkness that awaits her.

 

“Lullaby?” she requests, and _fuck_ , he doesn’t know how many times his heart can break, but it _does_ , it shatters into a million pieces… because she is fucking _dying_ , and all she wants is for him to sing her to sleep like he has been doing since she was four years old, terrified and orphaned, come to live with her strange, drug-dealing cousins.

 

And this time, when he sings her to sleep, she isn’t going to wake up.

 

Fucking fuck it all to fucking hell.

 

“Always, Anna-Ba-banana,” his voice shakes and she rubs her cheek against his bare chest, attempting to comfort him even now. Tears run freely down his face, but he clears his throat and swallows the harsh, cold, rock-hard lump in his throat and slowly hums her favorite song. It is not a lullaby, not really, but it is what he used to sing her to sleep with. Unbeknownst to him, it is what she sings Emma to sleep to. And it calms her now, more than ever.

 

 _“Blackbird singing in the dead of the night…”_ he trembles and shakes, but holds her close, soothing the tangles out of her long hair as he used to do when she was a child and ran around too much, getting into mischief.

 

 _“Blackbird singing in the dead of the night, take these broken wings and learn to fly… all your life, you were waiting only for this moment to arise… blackbird fly… blackbird,_ **_fly_ ** _…”_

 

He sings long into the night, rocking her back and forth, gently soothing her. He sings into the deepest, darkest part of the blackness and he sings as the night slowly fades away. He sings as the newborn sun paints the sky a soft crimson – the same color that Anna’s hair used to be. And he _doesn’t_ stop singing, even when he feels his baby sister still in his arms, even when the moist heat of her breath against his bare neck fades away, even when the cloying smell of blood fades into nothingness and he is left with nothing but empty spaces and loud silences that echo.

 

Because, if he stops – _when_ he stops – Anna will be gone. Forever.

 

Forever is a long time indeed.

 

And forever starts when his voice finally breaks, throat raw from using it all night. Anna is truly gone – _dead_ – in his arms, and he pulls her cold form closer to himself and cries.

 

For long hours, he cries, until the sun is hanging well in the sky, spreading bright sunshine to the denizens of the city scurrying about their work.

 

When finally he pulls away, whole being numb, suppressed fury and rage and bitterness thrumming quietly below his veins, Anna lies there, a serene smile on her face, left to die by one big brother and soothed into sleep by another.

 

“I will keep ‘em all safe, Anna-Banana,” he vows once more, soothing a hand over her cold forehead. “I swear to you… I _will_ keep Cas, Claire and Emma safe the way I couldn’t protect you or Kali. Or I will die trying.”

 

He leans in, presses a harsh kiss to her cheek and then gets up, cradling her prone form close to his chest.

 

An hour later, he stands in front of her funeral pyre, watching as the flames merrily crinkle, eating away her flesh as if she is no more than log of firewood. Her smile, though… it breaks his heart and it takes all he has to not to fall to his knees and start screaming at the skies at the injustice of it all.

 

When she is gone, nothing but a pile of ashes, he collects the remains and tenderly places them in a jar that he will safeguard with his very life. For a long moment, he simply hugs it to his chest, breathing in the crisp, cold morning air, feeling her warmth in the sunshine.

 

_Goodbye, Anna-Banana._

 

Then, he turns deliberately, walking away, mind already tumbling with ideas on what he must do next.

 

For there is work to be done.

 

Cas, Claire and Emma _will_ be safe. He promised his baby sister.

 

And he keeps his promises.

 

Lucifer, Michael, Alistair and the rest of the motherfucking crew will pay.

 

They will all burn... as Anna burned.

 

He will make sure of it.

 

_I'm coming, you fucking fuckers._

 


	2. A Family Exposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas comforts his traumatized daughter even as they're packing up to move into a new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick thank you to all those who left kudos and bookmarked - tooth-rotting fluff in this one. :)
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS - Nightmares, flashback, panic attacks, talk of torture and drugs

**Chapter 1 - A Family Exposition**

 

It’s dark. 

 

Why is it so dark? 

 

Her hands won’t move… and without them, she is powerless, unable to speak beyond the terror that clogs her throat and makes her tummy feel all weird, like she the one time she ate spoiled fish and kept throwing up. 

 

_ Daddy!  _ she opens her mouth to cry out for him, for her Daddy – because Daddy will make it go away, will make the fear vanish like he always does – but her voice is dead,  _ dead _ , and there is nothing, only dark that presses in on her until she can’t see anything, not even her own hands. 

 

_ “For your daughter, Meg… I know you don't want to hurt him, but you must do it for your daughter.” _

 

No, no, not that voice! 

 

_ Daddy! _

 

She whimpers, hugging her knees to her chest, mouth opening and closing like the funny fish she remembers seeing when her Daddy took her to the aquarium…  _ daddy, daddy, please, not her, daddy, I’m scared, where are you- I need you – daddy, daddy-daddy- _

 

Just like that, she is three years old again, stuck in the tiny little closet, hunching in on herself to become invisible to the people outside. She can hear his voice, Uncle Luke’s, so,  _ so _ loud and scary, and her mother answering her, something cruel and mean in her tone. 

 

_ “I will not let you down, sir.” _

 

The tears are hot on her face and they itch as they slip down her red-plum cheeks, and  _ Daddy, where are you, why aren’t you coming, Daddy, I need you, I’m scared, Mommy’s here, daddy, daddy, daddy…! _

 

She’s so scared. 

 

_ “Blackbird singing in the dead of the night…” _

 

Dimly, she hears something familiar, something soft and sweet and rough at the same time. Rubbing her hand over her eyes, she cocks her head, trying to fight her way out of the memory that grips her tight. 

 

It is still so dark, here in this closet. It presses in, like when Daddy hugs her tight and she cannot see anything… but Daddy is warm, warm and comfy... this is not a friendly pressing – it is scary and mean and big. Her throat hurts, her nose is running and she is so,  _ so _ scared. 

 

_ “Take these broken wings and learn to fly…” _

 

_ Daddy? _

 

She can hear his voice now. It’s…it sounds nearby, and she slowly uncurls, eyes still clenched shut, still shivering, but the dark is disappearing, replaced by the sound of her father’s rough singing. 

 

_ “All your life, you were waiting only for this moment to rise…” _

 

_ Da-daddy? _ she tries to ask, but the words just won’t come, not now, not ever, and they’re stuck in her throat like always, and she’s so scared, so, _so_ , scared and  _ daddy, please _ –

 

“It’s alright, Claire,” her father’s voice breaks her, and she throws open her eyes with a gasp to see him crouched in front of her, blue eyes wide and worried. 

 

Trembling, she raises her hands, almost surprised to see that they work just fine now. Her movements are shaky, but she asks the question she has been asking for the past few moments. 

 

_ Da-daddy?  _ she signs, and he doesn’t say anything, not immediately, simply offering her a nod. 

 

With a loud cry, she throws herself on him, huddling into his warmth as he wraps his arms around her, humming the lullaby Auntie Anna used to sing to him, and then to Emma before she went to live in the heaven in the sky. She shakes and shivers in his embrace, but Castiel just holds her close, running his hands through her long hair, gently untangling the harsh knots he finds. 

 

_ “Blackbird fly…”  _ he hums into her ear, and the sound of his deep, deep voice, rough and soothing is what finally,  _ finally _ convinces her that she is here, she is safe.

 

Daddy is here. 

 

_ “Blackbird…fly…” _

 

She is safe. 

 

*-*-*

 

It is the soft whimper that wakes him up. 

 

Castiel is only half-conscious, eyes drooping and limbs tired, but he instinctively searches for her, arms reaching out to where he tucked her into bed last night. Forcing his eyes open, he squints against the pale moonlight, frowning. 

 

Claire is lying a little away from him, her long, blonde hair – almost glowing in the silvery light spilling in from the open window – splayed out on her pillow below her. Her tiny form shakes and quivers, bony shoulders pushing in and out as her whimpers become soft cries. 

 

Garbled noises fall out of her mouth and he shoots up in bed, quickly switching the bedside lamp on and inching closer to her. He has to be careful; in the almost three years it’s been since, Claire’s nightmares have been regular occurrences and he’s learned the hard way that she does not always like being touched. 

 

A side effect, he supposes, knowing better than anyone how badly trauma could hurt. The old hurt springs up within his breast again, an ache that never healed, that will  _ never _ leave him. 

 

Her soft whimpers have become full cries and tears, and he  _ hates _ himself, hates that he was stupid enough not to make the choice he had earlier... hates, that he could not protect his baby girl the way he is supposed to. He failed,  _ dammit _ , and there is nothing he can do to change that. 

 

But now… now he can help her, now he can pull her close and tell her that she is going to be alright… because she is his little girl and there is  _ nothing _ he will not do for her. 

 

“Claire,” he murmurs, “Claire-Bear… it’s alright.” He reaches out and places a tender hand on her temple, heart aching at the light sweat that beads her skin. She is just  _ five _ years old, dammit. Her nightmares should be about the monsters hiding under the bed or in her closet; instead, she dreams of her mother and her uncles, and wakes up terrified, screams clawing their way out of her throat, words forever stuck between her lips. 

 

Because  _ he _ failed to keep her safe. 

 

“Sweetheart,” he whispers, leaning over her, and bracketing her small body in a question form, “I’m here… it’s going to be okay… you’re okay,” he rubs his palm over her forehead gently, running his fingers through her hair. “It’s alright now, wake up… you’re here, you’re with me…” 

 

“Claire, wake up baby,” he is almost begging but he doesn’t really care.  “I’m here, Daddy’s here…”

 

She shoots up with a light scream, blue eyes – so like his own – wide and terrified. He barely gets out of the way in time as her head nearly collides with his chin; she curls in on herself, small form shivering, trembling and shaking, eyes darting this way and that, glazed with fear. 

 

“Claire,” he says softly, knowing she isn’t here, she isn’t with him. She is back there again, back in that tiny, enclosed closet, barely able to breathe, barely daring to breathe for fear of being found. God, how could he have been so,  _ so _ stupid? Why didn’t he get out earlier? Why couldn’t he have had the sense to leave, to take her and keep her bloody safe? 

 

He failed her then… he isn’t going to fail her now. 

 

With the same conviction that hardens his heart every night this happens, he leans back, letting her sit there, knowing she will only scream and hurt herself if he touches her now. He aches – oh,  _ how _ he aches – to reach out to her and pull her into his arms, to hold her close and rock her to sleep. But that comfort must wait, he knows; she needs to first know him again, learn his touch once more before she can give in to its warmth. 

 

Damn Meg and Alistair and Lucifer to hell. Damn them _all_. 

 

And god damn _him_ for being stupid enough to believe that his family was worth it. 

 

With a sigh, he inches the lightest bit closer, keeping his movements steady and sure. Claire is shivering still, bright, fat tears coursing down the length of cheeks that are flushed red. Her breaths come is soft pants, and his heart breaks all over again to see his daughter so shattered. 

 

He doesn’t know what to say. 

 

When Claire lost her voice, he lost it too. He never quite knows what to say, what magic spell to cast to just make it all go away. And so he does the only thing he can. 

 

He  _ sings _ . 

 

The song begins as a soft hum, a quiet lilting melody that Anna used to sing. Gabe began the tradition he knows, started it by singing the four year old orphaned cousin to sleep. Anna passed it on to him and Emma, and for as long as he can remember,  _ The Beatles _ and their songs have been their lullabies. 

 

Claire knows it as well as she knows his voice. 

 

_ “Blackbird singing in the dead of the night _ …” 

 

Slowly, she raises her head the barest of inches, head tucked to one side as she tries to identify the source of the sound, but her eyes are closed and she is still shivering. The throes of the nightmare/memory are fading away, he knows, and encouraged, he sings properly, calling to her, telling her that she is okay, that she is here, with him, in the best way he knows how. 

 

_ “… take these broken wings and learn to fly…” _ he moves closer to her with each word, watching as her body uncurls, inch by tiny inch.  __  
  


_ “…all your life, you were waiting only for this moment to arise… blackbird fly…” _

 

Her eyes fly open and she stares, gaze dazed and confused. He is in front of her now, hands raised to show her that he holds no weapon, that he is safe. 

 

“It’s alright, Claire,” he breaks the song to murmur a reassurance to her and she just looks at him with a heartbreaking expression on her face. 

 

_ Daddy? _ Her hands, trembling, sign, and relief rushes through him, thrumming beneath his veins as he nods. She is still shaking like mad, her entire countenance terrified and frightened, but she knows him now, and the relief of it is painful. 

 

With a soft cry, she throws herself against him, burying her face in his neck. He feels the hot wetness of her tears seep into the rough cotton scratch of his pajamas and he runs a gentle hand through her long hair, soothing the messy tangles he finds. He hums into her ear, hoping the lullaby will soothe away the nightmares, will let her know that she is here, with him, safe, and he will never let anything ever hurt her again. 

 

_ “…blackbird, fly…blackbird…fly…” _

 

“I’m here, Claire-Bear,” he murmurs, reaching out to take her quivering hands in his. “You’re here. You're safe.”

 

She cries in his arms, and he aches that the only sounds that fall from her lips these days are those of pain and fear. God, he misses her laugh, the bright, tinkling giggle that was once given as freely as the clouds in the sky. What wouldn’t he do to bring it back? 

 

“Do you want me to get Emma?” he murmurs a little while later when her shakes have stopped somewhat and she freezes, before pressing in closer and nodding into his chest. With a sigh, he presses a tender kiss to her forehead and gently moves away, when she pulls him back. A broken moan that sounds like something a dying animal would groan is dredged out of her as she shakes her head franticly, tightening her grip on him. 

 

_ Do-don’t go, Daddy. _ Her hands can barely make the signs, she’s clinging to him so hard. His heart shatters again, but he gathers her close, picking her small form up with long ease of practice, and cuddles her close to him. 

 

“Alright then, Claire-Bear,” he mutters, “Why don’t we go to your sister, instead?”

 

She nods, burying her face in his neck as he carries her down the hall to the next room, where his younger daughter is sleeping. Claire is still shaking in his arms when they enter the room, warm tears still wetting his shirt, and he rubs her back as he slowly sets her down next to her sister. 

 

Emma’s bright red hair is spread all around her – just like Anna, Castiel’s heart aches – and her arms and legs are thrown wide apart, tiny belly rising up and down as she breathes. Her three year old form is almost lost in the sea of big pillows and blankets he bundles her up with, but he doesn’t regret the decision to buy a big bed, especially when he knows this kind of thing happens so often. 

 

Claire’s nightmares leave her clinging to them, refusing to let them go, so they share the bed almost every night. 

 

He places her next to her sister and Claire curls around her instantly, rubbing her cheek against the redhead’s and still shivering uncontrollably. Castiel can only watch in bittersweet silence as his youngest moans a bit, one green eye cracking open a wink. 

 

“Claiwe-?” she babbles, young enough that she still has her baby-speak-lisp, and yet offering comfort to her sister in a way adults fail to. Claire nods and holds her tight, Emma sighing and turning to accommodate her big sister. But even then, Daddy is not forgotten – the blonde haired girl reaches out with trembling hands to pull him down too, still sniffling, still shaking, needing both of them close to her. 

 

And Castiel can do nothing else but crowd in behind them, bracketing their small forms with his much larger frame, curling into a C-shape over them. They’re still tiny enough that his arms go around both of them collectively – an elbow digs into his belly and Claire’s long hair tickles his nose, but he cannot find it in himself to care as he breathes in the little-girl smell and holds them both close. 

 

He doesn’t sleep that night, feeling the warmth of Claire’s tears slowly cool on his neck, but he does keep watch over both his girls. 

 

It is the only thing he has the power to do anymore.

 

*-*-*

 

Claire’s first word was  _ his  _ name. 

 

She was just nine months old at the time, having been babbling random sounds and words that weren’t quite words but something resembling them. The day she called him  _ ‘dadadada’ _ clearly was also the day she had first tasted chocolate; she couldn’t sleep from the sugar and caffeine overdose and spent the entire night making him chase after her.

 

Meg had gone to bed at midnight, refusing to cater to “the brat” any longer, leaving him to deal with the hyperactive toddler that  _ she _ had fed with hot cocoa before any doctor would have advised it.  It was just one of the many bad motherly decisions his ex-girlfriend made. But strangely enough, this was one decision he could hardly regret – at the end of the night, when dawn’s first pink fingers were reaching out and grasping the sky, Claire finally fell into his arms, crying, “ _ Dadada _ !”, her golden head cuddling into his shoulders as she looked up at him with tearful navy eyes. 

 

He hummed her to sleep then, the notes of John Lennon’s  _ Beautiful Boy _ – the  _ ‘boy’ _ replaced with  _ ‘girl’ _ – easily soothing her into a contented, sound sleep, and his heart had blown up about three sizes too big for his chest with the knowledge that  **he** was her first word. 

 

And it had broken just as easily, a mere two and a half years later, when the  _ last _ thing Claire ever screamed was his name too. She crawled into his bed that night, after they finally –  _ finally _ – got out of that hellhole and just as she had fallen into his arms that first time, she sank into his chest once more, messy flax-hair teasing the bare skin of his tank-top covered chest as she sobbed his name. 

 

“Da-daddy,” she had gasped and whimpered.  _ “Daddy.” _

 

Just like before, he’d held her close and hummed the song to her, gathering her close to him and settling her on his hip as he carried her out of the motel they were staying in and into the nearest café. Still humming the words to  _ Beautiful Boy (Girl) _ , he quietly ordered a hot cocoa, rubbing her shoulders and sifting his fingers through her hair when she cowered at the sight of every stranger and winced at every loud sound. 

 

He didn’t think then that he would never hear her beautiful voice again. He didn’t know then that he would have to learn sign language to just speak to his baby girl, that that hot cocoa that calmed her down then would end up becoming an almost three-day-in-a-week-affair, with her nightmares occurring just as often. 

 

So this morning when he pushes himself, red and bleary eyed, out of the warm cocoon they made last night, he heads straight to the kitchen to get the hot cocoa ready, knowing nothing would comfort his girls anymore than the hot, sweet drink. 

 

Bending over with a sigh, he presses a soft kiss to Claire’s temple, ruffles Emma’s crimson hair, rubbing a hand down her chubby cheek and makes his way outside their room, loathe to leave. With a low yawn, he scratches at his stomach, stumbling into the kitchen – 

 

\- only to trip straight over the cardboard boxes he left there last night and fall face first onto the hardwood floor.  With a loud groan, he sits up, cursing his fate and casting a tired eye over the mess that surrounds him. 

 

Honestly, there is nothing he hates more than moving. 

 

“Jesus,” he groans again and picks himself off the ground, ambling his way on to the coffeemaker to throw in a pot.  He needs large quantities of caffeine before he can even begin to think about packing up everything left, including the two beds and the rest of the major furniture. 

 

He is just stirring the cocoa powder into the hot milk when the pitter-patter of tiny feet distracts him. The sound is accompanied by a small giggle and Castiel can't help the relieved smile that his chapped lips curve into. 

 

“Co-co!” Emma pronounces the two syllables distinctly as she is wont to do and he turns around to see the three year old flying down the hallway with a bright grin on her face. Claire follows her, more sedate than her sister, but the tired droop of her eyes from last night is gone and there is a timid smile on her face as she ambles in. 

 

“Co- _ co, _ Daddy!” Emma calls impatiently, toddling to him and pulling on his sleep pants. Castiel chuckles and goes down on one knee, offering her a raised eyebrow. 

 

“Teeth?” he counters and her face falls, lips curving into a loud pout that makes her look exactly like Anna. He pushes away the mental image of his big sister and leans in to tuck a strand of hair behind Emma’s ear before firmly pushing her in the direction of the bathroom. 

 

“Brush your teeth, Em,” he orders, “And you can have a whole mug full.”

 

Emma pouts, but her viridian eyes are twinkling mischievously. “Wholwe mug?” she claps her hand excitedly, turning to her sister. “You shawe wimme, Claiwe?” she holds out her arms, looking up imploringly at the bigger girl, who nods shyly. 

 

_ Of course, Em, _ Claire’s hands are no longer hesitant and the last vestiges of tension bleed away from Castiel’s shoulders as he bends down to offer them both a quick, one-armed hug. 

 

“Go on you two,” he shoos them and watches in fond silence as they run off to the bathroom, feet racing in eager anticipation of the promised treat. 

 

Silence descends on the kitchen as the girls leave; Castiel sighs, dropping back on to the chair and burying his face in his arms. It’s not the easiest thing, this being a single parent, and he wouldn’t give it up for the world.  But mornings like this – following Claire’s night terrors or his own nightmares – these are  _ hard _ , and he misses Anna like an amputee missing his lost limb. He looked up to his big sister just as Emma looks up to hers; Anna practically raised him, took care of him and loved him when nobody else did. 

 

And when the whole world was burning and he had nothing, it was Anna who picked up the pieces and put him back together. Even after he turned his back on her… it was Anna, it was  _ always _ Anna. 

 

God, he misses her. 

 

His eyes are burning and he can taste the tears at the back of his throat when the phone rings. Grateful for the interruption to his memories, he grabs at it, swallowing hard to get rid of the lump in his throat as he brings the receiver to his mouth. 

 

“Hello?” his voice sounds scratchy and even rougher than usual, but he cannot really find it in himself to care. Upstairs, he hears the girls rummaging and running through their morning routines, Claire no doubt helping her little sister in brushing her teeth. 

 

“Mr. Newman,” Castiel starts at the name, still not quite used to it, before he hums his acquiescence. 

 

“Hmmm, yes, speaking…?” he gets up, holding the cordless between his ear and shoulder as he moves to the stove to start breakfast. He grabs a couple of eggs from the fridge and breaks two into the bowl, picking up the beater. 

 

“It’s Principal Tran,” the woman’s voice is brisk and clear, expectant as she introduces herself. Castiel unconsciously straightens up, grip on the beater tightening as he answers. 

 

“Hello Ms. Tran,” he mutters. “Good morning.”

 

“And to you, Mr. Newman,” Linda Tran responds warmly, “How are you doing?”

 

“Well, thank you,” he tells her politely. “You?”

 

“Good, good. I called to confirm when you were getting in…? The term begins in three weeks and I need you to come in as soon as possible so that we can get everything settled,” her voice is kind but firm and Castiel sighs as he drops the beater. 

 

Upstairs, the noise recedes and he hears the pattering of feet a second time this morning as he turns to the entrance of the kitchen, anticipating the girls’ arrival. 

 

“We should be arriving sometime in the afternoon on Friday, Ms. Tran,” he replies. Just as he expected, Emma comes barreling into the kitchen, arms waving excitedly, hands still wet from the washing. 

 

“Co-co,  _ Da _ ddy!” she whines, but he holds up a hand to stop her from climbing up his legs as she sometimes is prone to doing in excitement. 

 

“Sit,” he says firmly, placing a hand on the receiver and pointing to the table. She pouts but nods and jumps on to the chair, swinging her chubby little legs back and forth since they are nowhere near the ground. 

 

“Sorry,” he says into the receiver and Principal Tran chuckles. “Morning routines,” he murmurs apologetically. 

 

“I quite understand, Mr. Newman,” her voice is amused. “I have a kid too. But… the schedule?”

 

Claire walks up to him them, leaning against his leg as she rests her head on his knee with a sigh.  _ Cocoa?  _ she signs,  _ I’ll give it to Emma. _

 

He rubs her hair in thanks and points to the mug on the countertop that she picks up and ambles back to the table with. Emma squeals in happiness, lips curving back into a pout when both Claire and Castiel shush her, little fingers grabbing the delicate tips of her ears in a universal expression of apology. 

 

“Sowwy,” she looks contrite and Castiel cannot help the smile on his face as he answers his boss. 

 

“We should be arriving in Sioux Falls by Friday afternoon, I think,” he repeats in a low tone, keeping an eye on his girls while he finishes up the omlettes. “I’ll take the weekend to set the house up and then come by the school on Monday. Will that be sufficient?” 

 

Pride wars with guilt as he quietly beholds Claire blowing gently on the cocoa to make sure it’s cooled enough to drink and then takes a ginger sip to test it. It is not hot enough to burn – he made sure of that – but the way she takes quiet responsibility for her sister is so reminiscent of Anna and Gabe that his heart squeezes in his chest. As the eldest kid, he knows, she takes up more than other children of her age and though he hates it, he has to admit he can hardly do without her help. 

 

“That sounds perfect, Mr. Newman,” Principal Tran informs him. “I look forward to seeing you then.”

 

“You too,” they say their goodbyes and hang up, Castiel placing the receiver back in its cradle as he throws the omlettes on to a plate and pulls out the ketchup. 

 

“Co-co!” Emma yell unnecessarily, bouncing back and forth in her seat. Castiel turns to her with a low chuckle and kisses her cheek, leaning over her red head to drop a soft kiss on Claire’s temple too. 

 

“Eat your breakfast, girls,” he says, “We’re gonna need our strength.” He motions to the mess that surrounds them, boxes half packed and unpacked, lying around, waiting to be filled. 

 

“Mama Missouri is coming over to watch you while I finish packing up everything,” he continues as he sets the plates down in front of them, tying the bib around Emma’s small neck, making sure the knot is loose and easy. 

 

_ Can…can we help, Daddy? _ Claire asks hesitantly and he shakes his head with a rueful smile. 

 

“No need, Claire,” he tells her softly, “I can finish on my own… just don’t get underfoot while I’m busy, okay?” he turns to his youngest with a pointed gaze, though his eyes are still twinkling merrily, “Yes, Em, I mean you.”

 

Immediately, the three year old looks contrived, offering him a sweet smile. 

 

“I be tood!” she babbles and he laughs, kissing her forehead before plopping down next to them with his own plate of food, filling up two glasses with orange juice. 

 

“Yes you will,” he answers sternly, keeping his amusement in check.  _ Or you’ll try at least, for a few hours before you’re jumping up and down restlessly and demand I take you to the museum or the aquarium.  _

 

And god help him, he would do it, even if it meant pulling one more all-nighter to finish packing… because Emma and Claire are getting the childhood he, Anna and Gabe never received and he’s never going to stop wanting to give it to them. 

 

 

*-*-*

 

Missouri Moseley is a force to be reckoned with, which is one of the main reasons why Castiel trusts her with his daughters. She also doesn’t take bullshit from anyone and has the capability to make a grown man weep with just a single look. Of course, she is a tad on the strange side, but then  _ he’s _ hardly one to judge. 

 

Most importantly, Missouri  _ knows _ . Not all the details, definitely not, but she knows that his name is not Casper Newman, that no, he is not from Chicago as he mentioned and that his daughters’ mother isn’t estranged from them – at least not in the way everyone else thinks. 

 

She also knows enough not to ask anything more of him.  _ How _ she came to know, how she took one look at him and refused to believe that his name really isn’t Casper remains a mystery to him even now – after three years, he’s learnt not to question her more or less psychic abilities, though that first meeting did terrify him. He thought she was one of Michael or Lucifer’s agents, sent to bring him and his daughter back. 

 

He has never been gladder to be wrong. 

 

“Well, I see  _ you’re _ getting things done,” Missouri’s voice breaks through his reverie and he turns to see her standing in the doorway, one hand on her hip and one eyebrow raised. Her tone is sarcastic and he offers her a tiny grin before walking over to press a kiss to her cheek. 

 

“Hello Missouri,” he murmurs in welcome and she sighs, flicking the hair that falls into his face. 

 

“You don’t fool me, boy,” she waggles a finger at him. “Your aura is ten kinds of wrong, and I can see the tiredness on your face. Do you take me for an idiot, Cas?”

 

She waggled a finger in his face the first time he introduced himself as Casper too; he’d stammered, wondering whether he should stay and find out what she knew or just make a run for it with the girls. Then, she grabbed his face and stared at him long and hard, before shaking her head and clucking her tongue. 

 

_ “I’m gonna call you Cas, boy,” she said, “I know Casper sure as hell ain’t your name, but Cas will soon belong to you and you only.” _

 

She refused to say anymore, but stuck around afterward, helping him unpack and keeping an eye on Claire, just shy of turning four years old and beginning to learn sign language, and on little Emma, who was still a baby.  In the two years since, she’s become a permanent fixture in their household, her life as much a mystery as his own must be, but still a part of their family in a strange, inexplicable way. 

 

“Long night, Missouri,” he sighs in answer, pulling back from her and returning to the box in front of him. He has been trying to sort through all his books, which isn’t exactly an easy feat, given the sheer number he owns. Pulling out one hardcover volume of  _ Dickens _ , he thumbs through it, a smile curving his lips at the sight of the message written on the front page. 

 

_ If Dickens walked into a bar and ordered a martini, would he get an olive or a twist?  _

_ xxxGabe  _

_ PS – tell anyone I sign my name with kisses, and I will bash you over the head with this very book. But – happy birthday, kiddo! _

 

A  _ Dickens  _ first edition – his tenth birthday gift from a brother who didn’t understand him but accepted him anyway. Castiel’s heart aches from the loss; he never allowed himself to feel Gabe’s passing when the man died and by the time he left everything behind, he didn’t know how to grieve anymore. 

 

Perhaps that’s for the best. Gabriel hated tears – he would probably prefer to be remembered as the pain in the ass brother who colored his hair blue. 

 

“He loved you,” Missouri tells him softly and he startles, having forgotten that she is standing right behind him. 

 

“Hmmm…?”

 

“The man who gave you this…” she glances at the message, raising an eyebrow, “Gabe…? He loved you, though he would rather color your hair blue than give you a hug.”

 

Castiel rolls his eyes, ignoring that she  _ literally _ just read his mind. He’s gotten used to her saying things like that. There is no point asking her about it; she will just give him one of those mysterious smiles and raise an eyebrow as she’s done so many times before. 

 

“Yeah,” he mutters, yanking himself out of his morose thoughts and stuffing the book into the box with the rest of his not-unremarkable collection. Before Missouri can say anything else, they hear the girls racing down the stairs, flying into the living room, Emma’s bright giggle and Claire’s soft smile bringing a look of fond affection to the black woman’s face. 

 

“Mama Missri!” Emma cries, jumping at their de-facto babysitter who twirls around to prevent the momentum from sending them both crashing to the ground. 

 

“Emma,” Missouri laughs, cradling the child to her ample breast, sifting long, maternal fingers through her apple-hued hair. “Claire,” she greets the girl who ambles up to her and hugs her legs. 

 

“Alright you two,” Castiel orders, “Out. Go over to Missouri’s and let me finish up here,” he looks pointedly at the half-packed box behind him. Emma wiggles in Missouri’s grasp, indicating that she wants to be put down and she obliges, bending down to set the three year old on the ground and gathering up Claire in her embrace instead. 

 

“Hang in there bug,” she whispers to the five – almost six now – year old, who looks at her with wide, innocent blue eyes, so like her father’s. “Good things are on the horizon for you all… your Daddy and you girls are going to find magic where you go, and it is the beautiful kind that lingers for a lifetime.” 

 

_ Promise, Mama Missouri? _ Claire’s fingers tremble, but the sheer hope reflected in her gaze strikes at Missouri’s old heart. Cas may not be very accepting of her ability, but his girls are all wide-eyed warmth and quiet faith. 

 

Emma, meanwhile, prances to her father and jumps on him. He lets out a surprised  _ whoof _ and then grabs at her arms as she leans her small form over him, picking her up in a piggyback and growling lightly. 

 

“Emma!” Cas grunts in surprise.  She giggles, pressing a smacking kiss to the side of his cheek, burying her face in his neck. 

 

“Jus wan’ed to say bywe,” she tells him sweetly and then slides down his back, running back to Missouri again, who sets Claire down as well and instead grabs both girls’ hands with her own. 

 

_ Bye Daddy, _ Claire signs and Castiel offers both of them a small smile and wave. 

 

“Go on, get out of here,” he shoos them away, “Don’t come back till dinner.”

 

“That don’t mean  _ you _ can skip lunch, you hear me boy?” Missouri’s waggling finger returns and he rolls his eyes exasperatedly. 

 

“Yes yes,” he mutters with fond exasperation. “I  _am_ a grown man capable of feeding myself .”

 

“Who still forgets to put on socks and almost ends up with frostbite, so don’t you sass me,” she cuts in tartly. Emma giggles and Claire holds back a smile as Castiel’s expression turns sheepish. 

 

“That was  _ one _ time,” he protests sulkily and Missouri reaches out to smack the back of his head lightly. 

 

“You need to take better care of yourself,” she orders him. “Now I’m taking your angels to the park for the day, but when I return, you’d better have eaten something, you hear me?”

 

Castiel just sighs and offers her a weary nod. Bending over, he kisses Claire on the forehead and rubs a thumb down her cheek. 

 

_ Have fun sweetheart _ , he signs and she nods.  He turns to Emma, repeating the process with her, kissing her cheek gently and rubbing her head before Missouri walks them both out. 

 

*-*-*

 

They arrive at Sioux Falls as planned on Friday afternoon. Castiel is weary beyond reason when they trudge in to their new home, Emma fast asleep on his shoulder and Claire half-conked out on his leg. For all that his girls are relatively well-behaved, being stuck together in car for over six hours is  _ not _ their idea of fun. 

 

By the time they hit the town borders, he was just about ready to pull out his hair; Emma is nothing if not a hyperactive toddler and getting her to settle down proved to be quite the task. Luckily, she fell asleep for the last leg of the journey, Claire nearly so, and now, they are finally here, in their new house, with nothing to their name except a few duffle bags full of clothes and an air mattress. 

 

The moving trucks should be in tomorrow morning and then –  _ oh joy! _ – he can begin the long dreaded task of fixing everything up, but for now, all he wants is to flop face first into bed and sleep away the next twenty four hours. 

  
The house is gorgeous – no two ways about that. It is a two-storey home, with a big lawn and a gravel pathway that leads to the porch and the front steps. The tiny little wooden gate that opens before the pathway is entirely too charming and he can see Anna written all over the house she’s left behind for them in her will.

 

He’s been renting it out since her death, since he received the damn place in a will he didn’t even know she made out. That she had apparently squirreled away this kind of money doesn’t really surprise him; if there is anything to be said about the Novak family, it is their ability to plan and stay prepared for anything. He himself has quite the nest egg stashed away in offshore accounts. What worried him was that she hadn’t covered her tracks enough – if Lucifer or Michael found out about the money she had taken, it wouldn’t be long before they put two and two together and came after them all. 

 

It’s why he stayed in Chicago for so long, why he hasn’t come to Sioux Falls until now. The last place his brothers would choose to look for him would be their own state – staying Illinois was a calculated risk, one that paid off quite well. But with getting laid off at his old job and Principal Tran’s more than generous offer of a position here, he figured it’s time to move past his old hang-ups and accept his sister’s last gift to him. 

 

The tug on the leg of his pants pulls him from his heavy thoughts. Castiel tightens his grip around the slumbering Emma and looks down to see Claire looking up at him with a sleepy smile. 

 

“What is it Claire?” he murmurs with a tired, scratchy throat, and for all her weariness, her cobalt eyes still light up when she points to the empty lawn that definitely needs a good mowing down. 

 

_ Swings, Daddy? _ Her hands are tired, but there is a shade of excitement in the way they tremble. Despite himself, Castiel feels a small smile curve the corner of his lips. Living in a big city like Chicago meant that they didn’t have much space to put up swings or have a garden as he’s wanted to do; here, out in the open, they had more than enough land to do both. 

 

“Yes, sweetheart,” he tells her softly, resting his hand on her honey-shaded hair, fingers sifting through long strands in a soothing gesture. “We’ll put up some swings as soon as we get unpacked, alright?”

 

She claps her hands in delight, a bright smile lighting up her entire face, and wraps her small arms around his thighs, which is as far as she can reach. He chuckles, the corner of his eyes crinkling when Emma groans into his shoulder and burrows in closer. The wetness he feels on his neck tells him that she is drooling and he sighs, grabbing Claire’s hand and leading her into their house. The five year old tumbles a little, just as tired as he is, but follows him obediently, leaning against his leg so that he is half carrying her as well. 

 

He’s glad for the cleaning crew he hired to make sure the place was habitable when they were to arrive; the last family he had rented out to moved out six months ago, and dust gathers easily. Now, though, it is clean, if barren of anything and he sighs in relief as he pushes the door open with one hand. 

 

It doesn’t take long after that to settle in; neither he nor Claire has energy enough to go exploring. Instead, he just bundles his younger daughter up and hands her to her sister, dropping their duffle-bags on the floor to go back out to the car and pull out the inflatable air mattress he packed just for this instance. The movers will be here tomorrow morning with all their furniture, but for now, this will be enough to get them through the night. 

 

Within half an hour, he has the mattress ready and set. By then, Claire is drooping in the corner of the living room where she sits with Emma cuddled against her on her lap. Her eyes are closed and she is as close to sleep as one can get. His chest tightens with emotion as he looks at them both –  _ god _ , his perfect little girls… 

 

With a sigh, he walks over to them and in one swift, practiced motion, picks them both up, stumbling a little at the sudden weight before he finds his balance. Claire awakens then, groaning softly and he rubs at her head to reassure before quickly carrying them to the mattress. She is too out of it to question him at all, pillowing her head on his shoulder trustingly, before he gently sets them down on the rubber surface.  A small sigh of contentment escapes her as her back comes into contact with the comforter-covered mattress. Her arms are out, instinctively searching for her baby sister and she grabs a hold of Emma when he places her next to Claire, cuddling against her and slipping into a deep slumber almost instantly. 

 

A warm rush of affection lights his entire being as he leans over to kiss their soft, flushed cheeks. He rubs a finger down the length of Emma’s face, chuckling a little at the wet drool he comes across, before wiping it away. His other hand is sifting through Claire’s hair tenderly, untangling the harsh knots carefully, one by one, until the blonde strands look like a lovely carpet spread over the whiteness of the comforter he’s bundled them up with. 

 

For a long, silent moment, he only stares at them, too tired to start unpacking and too keyed up to sleep. It occurs to him then that he should call Missouri – he promised her that he would as soon as they got home. Exhaling lightly, he pulls off the mattress and moves over to where he’s dumped their bags, rummaging inside his to find his phone. Grabbing the thing, he scrolls through his meager contacts list and dials her number, unsurprised when she picks up on the very first ring. 

 

“The house likes you, Cas,” is the first thing she says and he has to hold back a snort. 

 

“Hello, Missouri,” he greets her. “How are you?”

 

“Healthy as an ox,” she answers dryly. “And bored out of my mind, now that I have no one to bother me with inane chatter.” 

 

Castiel’s smile grows at her admission – it’s been barely a day and he’s already missing her quite a bit. The girls haven’t asked after her yet; they’ve been too caught up in the excitement of a new place and a new adventure, but he can't help worrying about when the homesickness is going to catch up with them, when they’re going to want the only maternal figure they’ve ever had. 

 

“Don’t you worry that head of yours, boy,” Missouri tells him quietly. “This new start… it’s going to be good for you, for all of you.”

 

“How can you know?” he knows that he sounds like a little boy, clinging to the only semblance of sanity around him. It’s been a long time since he felt so adrift, since things have been so terrifying… even when Anna died, he had Missouri; he’s always had someone to back him up. Here, in this strange place, he’s all alone, all by himself, and he’s terrified he’s going to screw it all up and ruin his daughters’ lives in some way or the other. 

 

“I just do, Cas,” Missouri’s voice is warm and affectionate. “I have faith… and a little more than that to boot. Trust me… it won’t be easy and there  _ will _ be pain, but there will be  _ laughs _ as well… it will be  _ good _ , I promise you that, Cas.”

 

Castiel sighs, accepting the truth of her words and letting it sink into his bones. He chuckles tiredly into the phone, seeing that the woman has –  _ again _ – avoided answering his question directly and simply shakes his head in acquiescence. 

 

“I trust you, Missouri,” he murmurs. “I do… it’s just…”

 

“It’ll work out,” she comforts him in her gruff tone, “For now, start by getting some rest. You’re gonn’ need it, boy.”

 

“Yes,” he mutters. As if on cue, a loud yawn interrupts him and he flushes red at her chuckle, before meekly accepting that she may be right. 

 

“I’ll speak to you tomorrow,” he continues and she bids him an affectionate goodnight. Once he cuts the call, he quickly toggles his settings to open up his alarm clock and sets it to six a.m. in the morning before leaving it next to the mattress. 

 

Throwing back the comforter, he crowds in behind his girls, curving his large form around them and pulls the comforter back up so that they’re all burrowed together under it, keeping each other warm and safe. A sense of security and  _ family _ settles over him and sleepily, he thinks that Missouri has it absolutely right, closing his eyes and giving into slumber. 

 

It’s not going to be easy, but it  _ is _ going to be  _ good _ . 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes and Thoughts - 
> 
> So this is my shameless attempt to get over my horrid weekend with absolute and utter fluff - I'm a whore for any kind of parent/child fluff! On a side note, the Cas I'm imagining here isn't quite as innocent and naive as the one on the show; he's not quite Endverse!Cas yet, but neither is he the adorable angel from Season 4... best I see, he's what we're seeing now, used to humanity and world-weary, but still more or less optimistic and loyal to almost a fault. The Claire I'm picturing here is the little girl we see back in Season 4, when her Daddy was still around - she's still innocent, though traumatized. On the other hand, it's Emma who's active and energetic here, all sass and pout, which is not what I remember from the show - I suppose Emma could be seen as the older version of Claire we see in 10, though that's not entirely the picture I'm going for either. 
> 
> Drop a comment to tell me what you think! More fluff coming your way soon - believe me, I am NOT kidding about that slow burn tag. We see the boys the next chapter - thoughts on what they're gonna be like? :P


	3. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets into a drunken fight behind The Roadhouse and Sam, inside rehab, worries about him. Mostly angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've caught all the triggers, but if there's anything else you think should be added, drop me a message and I'll make sure it is!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS - Drinking, Bar-fighting, Drug Rehab.

**Chapter 2 - Return**

 

If there is one singular instance that sent Dean’s life into the downward spiral that it is now, he will definitely mark it to be his mother’s death. Taken at the prime of her life, Mary Winchester burned in a fire that ate its way not just through their house or even just her body, but devoured the fragile family fabric that made up their entire lives. 

 

Mary died. John became an alcoholic, neglectful father. 

 

And Dean became the primary caregiver for the six-month old baby that was his little brother – the same little brother that he had once clambered onto his Mommy’s lap to get a better glimpse of, the same baby brother that his Mommy died trying to save. 

 

Such simple facts, all of them – and yet, they paint a telling picture of the fucked-up bullshit that is his life story. 

 

Because, ultimately, since the moment his father thrust a squalling, screaming Sammy into his arms and told him to  _ ‘Take your brother and run, Dean!’ _ , his entire world has been Sam,  _ only _ Sam… make sure  _ Sam _ has enough food to eat even if he goes hungry at night, make sure  _ Sam _ has those new sneakers he needs to be able to play soccer even if he has to take an extra shift at the bar and lose two extra nights of sleep, give up an entire new world of college and life because  _ Sam _ needs to recover, because John Winchester wasn’t capable of looking after his broken boy by himself without Dean there to mediate. 

 

Sammy has been his  _ everything _ since the day Mom died. 

 

But Dean’s head is spinning, shrinking, hurting… because he has  _ one _ job – watch out for Sammy – and he’s  _ failed _ that. 

 

Miserably. 

 

Six months… six whole  _ fucking _ months he’s held it together, moving through each day in a half-dazed manner and pulling as many shifts as he can at the garage and the bar to earn the money he needs to get Sam through this shit. For six months, he’s scrimped and saved and starved himself, because Sam needs the cash, needs the dough to get through rehab and then apply to those colleges he was looking at before that hell-bitch Ruby came crashing into his life and fucked it up to hell. 

 

And six months end tomorrow, because, god-fucking- _ dammit _ , Sam returns home tomorrow. All this time, without his brother there, it was  _ easy _ – easy to pretend that nothing has gone wrong, that he hasn’t failed, that it’ll all turn out to be alright in the end after all… except for those once-a-month awful phone calls, where neither of them speak about any of the shit they’ve been through, Dean could just pretend that Sam was an extended school-trip or something and he’s skipping dinner because he wants to add to Sammy’s college fund, not because he feels empty and hollow on the inside and anything he eats, he’s just going to heave up in the morning anyway, so might as well save on the cash. 

 

Sammy comes home tomorrow. 

 

And Dean still has no idea how the  _ fuck _ he is supposed to react, how he is supposed to get over the goddamned fact that even now, he is a failure, that he is apparently just  _ not _ enough for his family, for Sammy, for anyone… 

 

Because Mom died trying to save  _ Sam _ and then Dad left, and it was only Sam… until it wasn’t, not anymore. 

 

His head hurts like a motherfucker and he holds back a groan as he throws his legs over the side of his bed, sitting up and cradling his face in his hands. Bobby insisted that he take the day off today, knowing where his brain’s been at and too exhausted to protest, he agreed.

 

He’s beginning to regret that decision now. He’s spent the day lounging around in the house, nursing beer and watching reruns of  _ Dr. Sexy _ on the TV, but he hasn’t been able to distract himself even one little bit. His mind’s been running around in circles, one thought chasing after another, running into one another and becoming a tangled echo of self-blame and hatred that’s left him with a splitting headache. 

 

All he wants to do is to get blindly, stupidly drunk so that he can forget for just a few fucking hours, forget that he failed Sam, that he wasn’t good enough, that he’s  _ never _ been just enough for anybody – not his Mom, not his Dad and apparently, not even for Sammy. 

 

Decision made, he jumps out of bed, ignoring the way his empty stomach lurches and his head spins, stumbling until he regains his balance. He strides out of his room, grabbing the keys to the Impala and throws open the door, breathing in the stale evening air and jumping into his baby, before taking off in the direction of The Roadhouse. 

 

His thoughts are clamoring all the way there; flashes of memories fade in and out as he grips the wheel tight, even the usual purr of Baby’s engine failing to soothe him as it usually does. God,  _ why _ didn’t he see it earlier? How could he have been so stupidly blind to what was going on in his brother’s life? He knew everything about Sammy, raised him when he himself was just a kid, and yet…. He failed at the most important instance in his brother’s life.

 

_ Two years…  _ Dean exhales loudly at the thought… it took him exactly two years and five months to utterly screw up and let Sammy’s life go to ruin. He gave up  _ everything _ – including the chance to get the hell away from the fucked-up mess that was their lives – to come home and take up the responsibility that’s been his since he was just four years old. He did it all with a fucking smile on his face – for Sammy, always,  _ always _ for Sammy, which  _ still _ wasn’t enough… because, in the end, Sam chose to go to Ruby, to turn to drugs instead of coming to his big brother. 

 

His attempts at giving Sam anything resembling a normal life were so pathetic that his baby brother took to shooting up each day to feel that warmth. 

 

The thought leaves a bitter taste in Dean’s mouth as he pulls Baby into park and throws open her door, slinking into The Roadhouse, shoulders hunched and eyes tired. If Ellen spots him, she is sure to whack his head and make him go home to get some sleep, but Jo…. Jo’s an enabler, always has been and right now, he just needs one person on his side, one person to give him what  _ he _ wants. 

 

Fortunately for him, the bar is almost empty, with only a few of the regular patrons sitting at their usual spots, leaving Dean’s usual seat clear. He beelines for it, sinking into the rough cushions that has always felt more like home than anywhere else and allows his head to flop on to the counter, burying his face in his hands. It doesn’t take Jo long after to find him there – given the few number of customers present tonight, she’s left Layla to tend the bar herself and walks over to where Dean is, pressing a gentle hand to his shoulder. 

 

“Hey Dean,” she greets him quietly and he looks up blearily to see blonde hair swishing at the edge of his vision, sighing as she pushes herself to the other side of the counter so she can face him properly. 

 

“Whiskey, Jo,” he grunts, “And keep ‘em comin,” she offers him a glare, but nevertheless does as he asks, turning her back to him so that she can pull out the requested bottle of whiskey and the glasses. 

 

“You look like shit,” she’s never been one to hold back, his Jo, and he snorts, accepting the glass she lays down in front of him, downing it in one go. The whiskey burns, but he savors the way his eyes tear up at the sensation – it grounds him, keeps him going like it always has. 

 

“Thanks, Joanna,” he tells her sarcastically as she pours him more alcohol. Bless the girl, she’s giving him the good stuff, “Don’t think about hurting my delicate sensibilities or whatever.”

 

Jo snorts, throwing her hair back over one shoulder and leans over the counter to punch him. He grabs her hand and throws it back at her, smiling reluctantly at her  _ ‘Ow!’ _ of protest. 

 

“You’re a jerk, Dean,” she huffs, handing him yet another glass of whiskey and he just shrugs. 

 

“Never claimed to be a saint,” he smirks and she sighs, resting her chin on her hands, eyes turning soft and worried. 

 

“You doin ok?” she asks quietly, “With Sam… tomorrow…”

 

“Shut up, Jo,” he mutters. “Just… more.” His voice turns demanding as he hands out his empty glass and she doesn’t respond this time, studying him with a piercing gaze that has him shifting in his seat uncomfortably. 

 

“Alright, loser,” she mumbles something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like  _ emotionally-constipated-asshole _ , but then she just pours more whiskey into his glass and hands it over to him without saying anything and Dean doesn’t care about anything except the way the alcohol burns its way down his throat and lights a warm fire in his belly. 

 

An hour later, he’s most  _ definitely _ drunk, though Jo slunk off a bit earlier when more customers wandered in. Layla replaced her, quietly pouring him the whiskey - unlike Jo, the young mother of two boys doesn't  ask questions, doesn’t try to provoke a reaction out of him and he finds himself absurdly grateful.  He just wants to forget, for just a little while, before it all comes crashing down on him tomorrow. 

 

“Dean? What’re you doin here boy?”

 

Aw,  _ shit _ . Ellen. Dean just groans and buries his face in his arms, refusing to look up at her. The expected whack to the back of his head is not as harsh as it usually is; despite her grouchiness, Ellen is all soft and maternal the way he remembers Mom being a lifetime ago. 

 

“Jus needed to forge’, Ellen,” he slurs, raising half-empty glass of whiskey to her. She frowns, sighing and leans over to run her hand through his sweat-matted hair. 

 

“Can't keep runnin away, kid,” she mutters. “Sam comes home tomorrow. You’re gonna have to face it eventually.”

 

He doesn’t say anything, but pours the rest of the alcohol down his throat – he will never admit it, but the warmth of her touch grounds him in a way the whiskey can't, in a way that he hasn’t felt since Mom died. In the intervening years, he’s allowed himself few comforts, but he craves it right now, the affection of someone who just  _ cares _ , dammit. 

 

The tears that prickle, hot and wet in his eyes, aren’t entirely a side-effect of the whiskey, but he closes his eyes and pretends anyway, like he’s been pretending that everything is okay, that he’s just fine, that he’s got everything handled. 

 

But he  _ doesn’t _ have everything handled… Sammy proved just how much he’s  _ not _ handled things, and the truth of it so bitter, it leaves him wanting to throw things and break them or curl up in a corner and cry. 

 

“Wh’skey,” he grunts, gesturing for Layla to fill his glass again and Ellen frowns. She shakes her head at her bartender and turns to the twenty-one year old slumped on her counter with a raised eyebrow. 

 

“That’s enough, kid,” she says firmly. “Go  _ home _ . Get some rest. Lord knows you need it.” 

 

Dean musters up the best glare he can, which considering his bleary gaze and tired eyes, isn’t admittedly all that intimidating. It certainly doesn’t get past Ellen, who commands armies with a single brow. 

 

“Dam’ it, Ellen,” he groans. “I need this. Please.”

 

Her eyes soften, but her arms remain crossed across her chest. “You need  _ sleep _ , Dean. Go home. Rest. It’ll all be okay in the mornin’, I promise.” 

 

It’s a lie and they both know it, but it’s something Ellen knows Dean needs to hear. He’s been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders for too damn long, and right now, though she would give anything –  _ anything _ – to keep her boys happy and safe, she knows Dean will never allow her to take up the burden herself. Goddamn John Winchester for doing this to the boy, to  _ both _ his boys. 

 

“Ellen,” his voice is imploring, tired and the jean-clad woman swallows a hard lump in her throat at the utter exhaustion she hears in his voice. He should be out at college, living his life, attending frat-parties and whatnot, but instead, here he is, working himself to the bone and driving himself to the ground. If she ever gets her hand on the bastard posing as their father, she will  _ rip _ him to pieces. 

 

“Go home, Dean,” she repeats a third time, rubbing his shoulder in the only comfort he will allow himself. “Just…rest. We’ll handle it tomorrow.” 

 

He curses, but sets his glass down with a loud  _ thunk _ , fumbling with his pant pockets to pull out his wallet with shaky hands. She grabs his hands gently, capturing big and callused fingers in her smaller but similarly work-roughened ones, catching his attention, and shakes her head when he meets her eyes. 

 

“On the house, kid,” she tells him. 

 

He protests, “I drank t’much, Ellen, I-I-”

 

“Go on, boy, get home,” she pushes him towards the door and he sighs, stuffing his wallet back into his pocket. He stumbles a bit as he walks and Ellen frowns, wondering if she should send Jo along to make sure he gets home safe. He’s not stupid enough to actually drive home, inebriated as he is – not after all that’s happened in the past couple years – but that just means he’s gonna be walking home. She’s not sure if he’s sober enough to do that.

 

As if on cue, the eighteen year old blonde catches Dean at the door, reeling him in to capture him in a warm hug. And Ellen’s never been prouder of her girl than when she rubs her cheek against Dean’s shirt, grabbing his face in her hands and checking him over with a narrowed gaze of her own. 

 

“You alright there, Dean?” she hears her ask. “Want me to walk back with you?”

 

“Damn it Jo,” Dean grunts and Ellen’s heart sinks. She knows that he won’t be letting anyone close now, she’s heard that tone too many times.  _ Damn _ John Winchester to the deepest pits of hell. 

 

“I’m no’ a-a kid,” he pushes her away and Jo stumbles back, face arranging itself into an expression of resigned hurt. Ellen wants to whack the boy and then whack him again for good measure, but the exhausted droop of his shoulders and the tiredness in his gait is telling. 

 

“I can ge’ home by m’self,” the slur in his voice worries Jo too – she shares a concerned look with her mother, but sighs and backs off, accepting that the Winchester stubbornness is going to get them all killed one fucking day. 

 

“Take care, idiot,” she leans in to press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You don’t have to do everything by yourself, Dean,” she murmurs, pulling back, wishing she could erase some of the weariness in those lovely green eyes. Once upon a time, she fancied herself in love with those eyes, wanted nothing more than for him to give her the sensual smile he offers to the other women – sometimes men – he picks up in the very bar where she works. 

 

Now, that crush has faded into something deeper, more familial and loving. A part of her will always wonder about that could-have been relationship, she knows, but she’s content being his best friend – his  _ only _ friend – because she’s accepted that he’s not in love with her. 

 

But she does worry, and so she leans in to kiss his forehead again, wishing he would just let her help. 

 

“You can’t help, Jo,” he slurs and as close as she is, she can feel the slight tremble of his body, weariness written into every pore. “Not this time.” He ruffles her hair half-heartedly, running the back of his thumb down the length of her cheek like he used to when she was still barely sixteen and reeling from the loss of her father. Even then, even with caring for both her and Sam in the aftermath of the accident, he never let himself lean, never took comfort, always giving. Her heart aches, but he moves back before she can say anything else and walks out, stubborn bastard that he is. 

 

Ellen moves over to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. 

 

“Stubborn asshole,” she sighs, leaning into her mother’s comforting embrace. Turning her head to the side, she sees the look of concerned affection as Ellen stares after Dean, her grip tightening around her daughter in a way that tells Jo that she would rather be hugging that boy right now. She squeezes her back and Ellen looks down with a sigh. 

 

“Wouldn’t be a bloody Winchester if he wa’nt stubborn, Jo,” she murmurs, resting her cheek on her daughter’s blonde hair. 

 

“Yeah…” Jo, “Doesn’t mean I gotta like it.”

 

“None of us do,” Ellen drops a kiss on her forehead and pulls away, turning back to return to the bar. “Call Bobby,” she continues, tossing her the phone, “Sam’s comin home tomorrow and the least we can give that boy is a welcome home before he and Dean get into it.”

 

Jo catches the phone with both hands and proceeds to do just that. 

 

The Winchesters may be stubborn assholes, but they are no less, after all. And damn if she isn’t going to make Dean realize that, even if she has to bang it into his stupid head. 

 

*-*-*

 

Castiel is walking back home when he sees it. 

 

It’s been three months since they moved to Sioux Falls and the only time he ever gets to himself is during these short walks he takes across the small town to travel to and fro from the high school to his house. He does own a car, but he prefers to walk or run – it’s how he gets his exercise, after all. He only uses it to pick up or drop the girls somewhere and his house is within close enough proximity of most necessities that he doesn’t need to drive much. 

 

Tonight, though, he’s taking a walk for the fun of it, like he hasn’t done since before Emma was born. Autumn has come to Sioux Falls in a riot of colors and the night air is crisp and fresh, refreshing him like nothing else, and he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his beloved trenchcoat to ward off the chill. 

 

Of course, autumn also means that Halloween is nearing and both of the girls have been extremely excited about the upcoming holiday, chattering away about costumes and candy and all the fun they are going to have. Emma wants to go as an elf, but his introverted Claire wants to be  _ Batman _ . 

 

Missouri was right, after all. 

 

Things  _ are _ good, even if they aren’t exactly easy. 

 

His position at Sioux Falls High School as the new English teacher is secure and the job is everything he hoped for it to be. Principal Tran gives him free reign almost and he is soaking it up, letting himself explore his subject in a way he’s never been able to before. It’s everything he dreamed of, back when he was stuck in the Novak mansion – he’s free, living his own life, on his own terms and it brings a smile to his face every time he thinks about it. 

 

And the girls have settled in quite well too. As with everything else, the first few days were the hardest. Once it sunk in that they were going to be here permanently, that they could no longer see Missouri on a daily basis, homesickness set in hard. Emma cried for a week, and Claire refused to sleep by herself, shivering and jumping at every new sound until she became more familiar with her surroundings. 

 

Of course, school was an entirely new ballgame altogether. Given that Claire doesn’t speak and has to communicate only via sign language, he knew it wasn’t going to be easy. He spent the first few weeks tossing and turning at night, stroking her hair and singing her to sleep to soothe himself more than her. But his fears ended up being unfounded – Sioux Falls Kindergarten is a place of kindness and warmth that accepts all, and fortuitously, Claire’s teacher, Ms. Donna, knows sign language, so his daughter’s ability to learn isn’t hindered. 

 

However, it doesn’t mean that she’s not lonely; very few children are aware of selective mutism and none of Claire’s classmates know sign language. Ms. Donna does help in clearing the air usually, but he can see the way her bony shoulders droop every time he goes to pick her up. She has few friends and truly, Emma is her one safe place. It hurts, tightens his chest with guilt each time he thinks about it, because it’s  _ his _ fault, his stupid faith in his tattered family that’s left daughter so very hurt. 

 

Castiel is so lost in his thoughts that he almost doesn’t notice it. 

 

In the alleyway behind the bar – The Roadhouse – three men are converging on another smaller figure that’s struggling to push them off. It’s not surprising that he didn’t notice instantly; he doesn’t really make a habit of frequenting such places. While his instinct is to be aware of every nook and cranny – training of over two decades is hard to overcome – he doesn’t typically take the time to identify bars or pubs. Having two daughters under the age of ten means he has almost no time for recreational activity, so despite having passed The Roadhouse on his walks almost daily, he’s never been inside or spared it more than a passing glance. 

 

He sees it now well though, and scowls at the four figures fighting behind the bar. He hates bar brawls, hates that men who cannot hold their liquor would become such a public nuisance and rolls his eyes, turning to walk on, when he notices, out of the corner of his eyes, that three of them are attacking the fourth and it doesn’t look like a simple brawl. 

 

He draws closer, sudden worry spiking, and sees that the fourth person – a man – is just lying on the ground now, taking every kick and every punch, curled up and shivering. 

 

“Wallet!” one of the three assailants – clearly a thief, Castiel now knows – demands, and he’s jogging over to them, righteous fury burning in his gut. This man is clearly run down and it angers him to see the way these idiots would take advantage of his weakness. 

 

“I don’ have any money, asshole,” the man on the ground slurs, raising his arms to defend himself from the flurry of blows being thrown his way. The other two men are snickering, holding him back as the bigger, black man aims his punches to the poor guy’s face. 

 

“You _ owe _ us, Winchester,” he growls, “Your  _ brother _ owes us,” and he buries his fist in the man – Winchester’s – stomach, a sickening crack resounding in the silence of the evening air. Winchester drops like a sack of potatoes, the wind taken out of him completely, mouth open in a quiet scream of agony. His eyes are wide and as they wander past his attackers, they meet Castiel’s intense gaze, looking tired and weary. 

 

They are the  _ greenest _ , most beautiful eyes Castiel has ever seen; they reflect a weariness that surprises him, that goes beyond just getting beaten up in an alley. But behind that weariness, he senses a fury, a restlessness that  _ burns _ and suddenly, he’s marching up to the three cowards and grabbing the biggest of them by the shoulder, dragging him away from this Winchester. 

 

The man lets out a surprised yelp as he finds himself being manhandled into facing a wiry guy in a trenchcoat with stunning blue eyes that are narrowed in an angry scowl. 

 

“What the fuck-?” he cries but before he can say anything else, he is being punched in the face hard. 

 

The other two men yell in indignance, dropping Dean and join the fray, converging on Castiel at the same time. 

 

Too bad for them, they are facing a man  _ raised _ to violence, taught to handle .45 revolvers even before he could speak. For all that he looks lean, he packs quite the punch – Anna’s words, not his – and it doesn’t take him long to incapacitate his two attackers. He ducks as a fist comes flying his way, grabbing the man’s arm and throwing him over his shoulder before kneeing the third one in the groin and pushing him towards his fallen partner. 

 

Winchester lies on the ground, a dazed look on his face and Castiel walks over to him, holding out a hand. 

 

“Behind you!” he yells and Castiel turns around to see the previous black one – the man punching Winchester earlier – coming at him with a baseball bat. He ducks just in time, but before he can fight him off, the green-eyed man has pushed himself off the ground and thrown himself at his attacker, yelling and crying out loud. 

 

Castiel jumps in to help him, but it ends up being unnecessary, as Winchester pins him to the ground and keeps punching his face. The bat lies to the side of him, useless in the face of Winchester’s fury. 

 

“Asshol’,” his voice is shaking and Castiel can see that the man is very clearly drunk, but there is an undercurrent of something  _ else _ , something more powerful and angry as he jams his fist into the man’s face. 

 

“Stay ‘way fr-from Sammy,” he punches him one last time before jumping off and spitting on the ground next to him. “Tell your boss to stay ‘way too.”

 

The man groans, “This isn’t over, Winchester,” he spits out through broken teeth and bleeding lips and Winchester snorts, walking away on trembling bow legs. 

 

Castiel runs after him with a raised eyebrow, annoyance coloring his stance – he jumped in to save a complete stranger, and  _ this _ is the thanks he gets? 

 

“Uh, hello?” he calls, and Winchester whips around with a glare, those lovely verdant eyes widening in anger. 

 

“Look, du’ude,” he growls, “Thanks, but no thanks. I had it handled.” 

 

He opens his mouth as if to say something else, but then sways on the spot, nearly falling before Castiel reaches over on instinct to catch him. He holds him up, tactfully not mentioning the way his entire body is shaking, instead just rolling his eyes at the extensive display of machismo. 

 

“Clearly you did,” he mutters sarcastically and Winchester snarls before pulling away and turning his back to him deliberately. 

 

“Thanks, but I gott’ go,” he stumbles as he walks and Castiel sighs, running to catch up to him. 

 

“Look,” he says tersely, “I just saved your life. You’re obviously drunk and tired and I doubt you can make it home in this state. What if those men follow you? I don’t think you’d be able to escape them a second time, especially not in your condition.”

 

“I said, I’m fine, mister!” Winchester snaps, jerking away. “M’car’s right here. I can get home by m’self, been doin it for years!” 

 

“Let me help you,” Castiel tells him sternly. In a distant corner of his mind, he wonders why he’s being so insistent – the girls are waiting for him and he knows he’ll have to pay Becky extra for how late he’s going to return home. But right now, those tired viridian eyes are pleading with him, with anyone really, to just listen, to  _ stay _ , and it’s crazy and mad and he’s known this man for all of half an hour, but he wants to help. 

 

“Don’ need your help,” he mutters sulkily and Castiel blinks  _ – is that a pout? _   Suddenly, he wants to laugh; the man in front of him, despite the blood on his forehead and the swelling of his eye, looks  _ exactly _ like Emma when she’s not getting her way. 

 

As if on cue, Winchester’s legs give out on him and he stumbles for the second time that night. This time, though, Castiel stays back, not catching him, and he falls to the ground, where he just lies, quiet shudders racking his body. 

 

Castiel looks down at him with a raised eyebrow. “You need my help,” he repeats, “So let me assist you. Please.”

 

Winchester huffs and Castiel has to hold back his eye roll as he holds out an arm to the fallen man. He eyes it suspiciously, glaring at Castiel who just sighs impatiently and reaches out to grab his arm and pull him to his feet. 

 

“Look, it’s getting late and I need to get back home,” he tells him insistently, “Just tell me where your home is and I’ll make sure you get back safely.”  _ Though safely seems a relative term right now _ , he notes absently, taking in the injuries the man sports. 

 

Winchester exhales tiredly and then sags, the fight going out of him as he finally allows himself to lean on Castiel, who stumbles a little at the sudden weight before regaining his balance. 

 

“Ya, wh’tever, man,” he mumbles, slugging his arm over the shorter man’s shoulder and accepting the support he offers. 

 

“Where do you live?” Castiel asks as he helps him walk, keeping a worried eye on him as he just stares into space. 

 

“C-close,” he stutters, breathing heavily. 

 

“You mentioned your car?” Castiel frowns, but Winchester just shakes his head. 

 

“I-I’ll ge’ her tomo’ow,” he grunts and Cas blinks at the reference to his car as a  _ ‘her’ _ . Shrugging it off, he listens as the man gives – with short, terse sentences – directions to his home and Castiel simply helps him put one foot in front of the other, surprised to realize that it’s not that far from his own home. 

 

Each step is agony for his charge, he can tell, and Winchester’s breathing turns laborious by the time they finally reach his house – if it can really be called that. The house is dilapidated and old, an ancient tiredness to it that matches the man that Castiel is half-carrying. Pushing away that uncharitable thought, he helps him walk over to the door, finally moving back when Winchester pulls out his key and fumbles with the lock. 

 

When the door is open, the drunk man with the brightest green eyes he’s ever seen turns to Castiel, an air of awkward apology on his face. 

 

“I-uh,” he fidgets, leaning heavily on the doorway and Castiel nods, turning to leave. “Hey, thanks!” his voice slurs, but the gratitude is genuine, Cas can tell, and he squeezes the man’s shoulder lightly before walking back in the direction of his own home. 

 

Dean just stares after the strange, nerdy little dude who came out of nowhere and helped him get home and then just walked away, without even wanting to exchange names. Who does that? His mind is spinning, his eyes are burning and god _ damit _ , everything fucking hurts as he trudges into the house. He stands in front of the stairs that leads to his bedroom, cursing his stupidity for not seeing those assclowns coming at him – if he hadn’t decided to get drunk tonight, maybe he could have prevented all this shit from goin’ down. 

 

With a tired sigh, he forces himself to raise one foot, then another, and another, and another – until he’s finally on top, the door to his bedroom left wide open in his mad dash to get drunk from earlier. Throwing his shoes off, he just flops on to his bed, not even bothering to throw the covers back or change into pajamas. 

 

Sammy comes home tomorrow. 

 

His heart lurches in a mix of fear, trepidation and excitement and heaving a loud sigh, he grunts as the pain in his ribs makes itself known. He rubs at it, before burying his face in his pillow, not giving two shits about the way the blood stains the sheets or that he’s still fully dressed. 

 

_ Sammy _ comes  _ home _ tomorrow. 

 

Despite everything, despite the fear and the guilt and the anxiety, Dean Winchester still conks out with a smile on his face… because his brother is coming back, and that still means the whole fucking world to him. 

 

*-*-*

 

His skin prickles. 

 

The room is too small, too white and too… _ everything _ . It takes him exactly six paces to walk across and walk back to his too-hard bed, exactly two minutes to do it in. 

 

Sam’s been doing that circuit for the past six months. He knows. 

 

His skin feels too tight, too constricting and all he wants is…to do something… to… _ to… _

 

There it is again – that urge… to just shoot up, to just…  _ forget _ . It’s all he’s ever wanted, it’s all he ever hoped for. Even when he was mute, he just wanted to forget. 

 

Jumping off the bed, he paces again, counting the six steps and the seconds that pass along with it. He’s restless, tired and his mind churns – will Dean ever be able to forgive him? He’s going home today, but he doesn’t know what he’s going to face. And it hurts; it hurts that he failed Dean, it hurts that Dean has to once again shoulder the responsibility for his mistakes,  _ hurts _ that his big brother will most likely blame himself for everything. 

 

Even when  _ he’s _ the whole reason this happened. 

 

_ One, two, three… one, two, three…  _ and back, and forth… 

 

Sam taps his foot against the floor, trying to get his running thoughts back into some semblance of order, trying to ignore the prickle against his neck, the need to just… let go… that need is what got him here in the first place, it’s the last thing he’s going to give in to now. 

 

He failed Dean once already. No way in hell is gonna do it again. 

 

“Sam?” 

 

The kind nurse who’s been helping him in these past few months stands in his doorway, a soft smile on her face. 

 

“Hey Andrea,” he mumbles his greeting, but forces a smile for her. She was one of the first people to reach out to him in here, who refused to give up on him even on those days when he felt like just crawling out of his skin and throwing it all to the wind. 

 

“You ready to head on home?” she asks, walking in and placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. He sighs, nodding tiredly, gesturing to the single dufflebag of his belongings that rests on the bed. 

 

“All packed,” he knows she can see just how fake his grin is, but she plays along, not calling him out on it. 

 

“Good,” she squeezes his hand and then turns to walk out, stopping at the doorway to offer him a knowing look. 

 

“You’re gonna be just fine,” she tells him, her voice firm and reassuring. Sam deflates, letting her see just how terrified he is of failing again, of falling off the wagon, of fucking everything up a second time. 

 

“How can you be so sure?” his voice trembles, images of Dean’s horrified face flashing behind his eyes. God, when Dean found out about his addiction… the look, the utter  _ horror _ , the heartbreaking realization and the blame his big brother took upon himself… that  _ look _ will haunt Sam’s nightmares for the rest of his life. 

 

It’s why he spent six months keeping away from the drugs, why he struggled for so long to be better, to become  _ good _ , so that Dean will  _ never _ look like that again, so that he can stop being such a bloody burden to the one person who has never failed him. 

 

“Because you never stopped trying,” Andrea answers just as quietly. “Because you have more reason to fight than anyone else here, and you’re not one to just give up.”

 

Her soft brown eyes are knowing, filled with so much faith that he doesn’t deserve and he looks away, gulping, trying to swallow past the hardness in his throat. 

 

“Yeah,” he mutters. 

 

“You’ll be okay, Sam,” she says and then before he can reply, before he can ask again why she believes in him, she walks away, leaving him to the mercy of his thoughts as he waits for Dean to come pick him up. 

 

God, what does one even say to the brother who’s given up everything for you and whom you failed spectacularly in return? 

 

He didn’t know then, when Dean came back after spending exactly six months at university to take care of the traumatized fifteen year old that John Winchester could no longer handle by himself. He didn’t know when Dean dropped out of college for him, didn’t know when he took official custody of him, didn’t know when he found out about the drugs but didn’t say anything except to work even harder to put him through rehab. 

 

He  _ still _ doesn’t know. 

 

It gnaws away at his skin, like an open wound that hasn’t scabbed over quite right, and he just wants to keep worrying it and itching at it until it just  _ stops _ … until everything fades away and all that’s left is warmth and peace and quiet. 

 

He hasn’t had that quiet in six months. He doesn’t think he’s ever going to get it back again. And a small, tiny part of him that he tries to force down, tries to push away, can't help but resent Dean for taking away that little piece of heaven he created for himself. 

 

But more than anything else, he  _ loves _ Dean, loves the big brother that sacrificed the world for him… and for that, he’s going to give it all up, try harder,  _ be _ better…. Because Dean deserves nothing less. 

 

So he sits down to wait, tapping his foot against the floor and pinching his fingers in an attempt to stem the nervous energy that is bubbling beneath his skin. 

 

More than two hours later, he’s still waiting, heart sinking with both irritation and worry. Dean still hasn’t showed and his phone is going straight to voicemail. Andrea wandered in an hour ago, asking after him, and Sam had no answer. It’s worrying, because no matter how pissed Dean is, no matter  _ how _ disappointed he is, he never turns his back on Sam… he always comes when his little brother calls,  _ always _ . 

 

And now he’s missing. 

 

A part of Sam wonders if this is  _ it _ , if this is the time his brother finally gives up on him, washes his hand off the child he’s raising when he should be living his own goddamned life. He pushes that part away, because Dean has never once abandoned him, not the way Dad did. Dean always comes, is always there, because he’s  _ Dean _ , he’s his big brother and if he isn’t here now to take him back home, then something is very,  _ very _ wrong. 

 

And so Sam, for once, decides to look out for his brother instead, and rings for Andrea, who takes him to make his phone call. For obvious reasons, patients are not allowed to have mobile phones, but accompanied by someone, they are well within their limits to make as many calls as they’d like with the rehab’s facility and Andrea is only too happy to help him out. 

 

He calls Bobby, knowing that if there is anyone who would know where his brother is, it’ll be the grouchy old man who is more of a father to them than John Winchester ever could be. 

 

“Hello?”

 

Bobby’s gruff voice sends a warm surge of affection through Sam and he exhales in a rush of relief. 

 

“Hey Bobby,” he mutters, pulling at his nail nervously, “Uh… I-uh…”

 

“Sam? Where the hell are you, boys?” he demands and Sam’s blood runs cold. 

 

“What do you mean, Bobby? I’m still here at the rehab centre, Dean hasn’t showed yet!” worry for his brother tightens his gut and he pinches his nail even harder, drawing blood now. 

 

“I haven’t seen that damned idjit all day, figured he’d be out to pick you up,” Bobby says worriedly, “Ellen and Jo and I drove up to your house and ‘t was locked, lights out. I called Dean, but it went to voicemail, so figured you boys were out, patchin’ it up or somethin.”

 

“Bobby, it’s Dean... he’s not exactly the ‘let’s-talk-our-feelings type’,” he responds dryly, absently rubbing his bleeding finger, spread the crimson shade over the pale color of his nail. 

 

“Yes well, it’s high time you boys put on your big girl panties and talked it out,” Bobby sounds irritated, and Sam just sighs. He doesn’t have time for this, he needs to find Dean now. 

 

“Bobby, he’d never  _ not _ show up,” he says firmly and he can almost see the older man pursing his lips in agreement. If there’s one thing they agree on, it’s the unending loyalty Dean Winchester shows to anyone who is part of his family, almost to a fault. 

 

“Yeah,” Bobby says finally, “Ya, I hear ya, Sam. I’ll send Ellen and Jo over to the house again, make sure the idjit hasn’t killed himself… he was at The Roadhouse last night, apparently, drunk off his ass, but I didn’t think he’d pull somethin’ like this.” 

 

“Drunk?” Sam feels like puking, gut churning with worry and guilt.  _ God, Dean, what’s wrong with you? _

 

“Never mind, Sam,” Bobby says quickly, and the momentary irritation at the fact that he’s trying to protect him –  _ again _ – fades away when it sinks in what Bobby just said. Ellen and Jo are going to the house, so that means…

 

“And  _ you, _ Bobby?” he asks sharply. “What’re you gonna do?”

 

“Don’t ask stupid questions, boy,” Bobby tells him gruffly. “I’m comin to get you.”

 

“Bobby, Dean-” he begins. He’s grateful that their pseudo-father wants to do so much, he  _ is _ , but he also knows his brother… he knows that if Bobby comes, then he’s going to blame himself again, for not being there for him, for not coming through when Sam needs him, never mind that it’s  _ Sam _ who is at fault, that it’s Sam who put them in this position in the first place. 

 

“Is an idjit who’s so used to blaming himself for everything he’d find a way to put the sun not rising on his shoulders,” Sam should have known that Bobby would understand; he knows Dean almost as well as Sam himself does. 

 

“That don’t mean that you have to stay stuck there, Sam,” he continues, his tone softening. “Dean’s gonna be fine. I’m comin to get you, alright? If you don’t get back home today, Dean’s gonna get worse, so sit tight and wait for me.”

 

He’s about to hang up when Sam calls him back. 

 

“Bo-Bobby?” his voice is small, almost that little kid that Bobby tried to stop Dean from taking custody of so that he could live his own life. If the idjit had allowed it, Bobby would have signed those custody papers himself, brought Sam home and raised him the way he ought to have. But Dean Winchester is as stubborn as they come and in the end, Bobby can only look out for them from the sidelines. 

 

“Yeah, Sam?”

 

“Dean…” Sam hesitates, then pushes on ahead determinedly. “How-how bad?”

 

Bobby goes silent, words dying in his throat… what exactly is he supposed to tell the seventeen year old? That Dean is driving himself to the ground? That he’s pulling so many shifts at the bar and the garage that he can barely keep upright, but he continues to do so because it leaves him bone tired, with no time or energy to think? That he caught the idjit damn near fainting once because he’d skipped one too many meals and was running on less than three hours of sleep? 

 

He doesn’t know what to say. So he says nothing. 

 

And Sam understands the silence far better than anyone else; after all, it was his companion for a very, very long time. 

 

“That bad, huh?” the pain of his torn fingernail is a distant hurt, much too diminished in comparison to the way his chest tightens, the way his heart shatters at the thought of his big brother just  _ enduring _ each day. 

 

“Just get home, idjit,” Bobby murmurs and slams the phone down, leaving Sam to stare after the receiver like it holds the answers to all the questions clamoring around in his mind. 

 

“Sam?”

 

Andrea’s soft call pulls him out of his head and he turns to her with a tired sigh. At seventeen, he’s already tall for his age, towering over her small frame and it shows as she rises on her toes to ruffle his hair. 

 

“Everything alright?” she asks quietly, concern coloring her tone. He offers her a shrug, because, honestly,  _ nothing _ is alright… nothing has been alright for a long, long time. 

 

“Bobby’s coming to pick me up,” he tells her instead. “He can sign for me instead of Dean, right?”

 

Given that Dean was the one to get him admitted and it’s Dean who’s been put down as the primary contact, he’s not too sure that Bobby will be allowed to pick him up. Andrea asks him to wait while she goes to check and he just returns to his room, pacing the six steps again and again till she returns. 

 

“Yeah, Sam, your uncle can take you home,” she tells him, flipping through a file – most likely his own – as she stands in the doorway. “He’s been listed as an emergency contact in case we can’t reach Dean, so it shouldn’t be an issue. Just get him to sit with us for a few moments before you leave, so we can catch him up, okay?”

 

He nods, a bitter taste in his mouth at the thought of  _ ‘catching him up’ _ . He knows that it’s code for what to do to make sure he doesn’t slip back into the habit, to keep a silent watch on him so that he’s not in danger of shooting up again. It stings, but he understands and lets it go. He’s more worried about Dean right now, and that keeps him focused, grounded in a manner that he hasn’t felt for a long time. 

 

Because whatever Dean is facing, it can't be good.

 

*-*-*

 

It is bright as fuck when Dean awakens. 

 

 

He's thrown out of sleep, yanked into the world of the living by the loud yapping of some asshole’s puppy outside and the goddamned sun is too frickin  _ bright _ . His eyes burn and he curses himself for leaving the windows and the curtains wide open last night. His head hurts like a motherfucker and he buries his face into his pillow, trying to block it all out, utterly ignoring the way the now-turning-brown stains of his blood form a criss-cross mosaic pattern on the pristine white sheets. 

 

Wait…  _ blood? _

 

What the actual fuck-?

 

Dean shoots up into a sitting position and then groans when the room begins to spin, his head threatening to burst from the inside. God fucking  _ damn _ it, he’s never drinking again. He throws the covers back and rushes into the bathroom, barely managing to bend over the toilet bowl before he’s hurling the contents of his stomach into it.

 

He’s dry heaving in a few short minutes; there is nothing in his stomach except the alcohol and it’s already come up. His gut feels like something is pinching his insides and his chest  _ aches  _ something fierce. He has to hold back a wince when he feels his entire left side just  _ throb _ and the tiles are cold against his bruised knees. 

 

_ Bruises and blood, wow… _ he must have had quite the night. 

 

It’s fuzzy as hell and Dean groans at the pain when he finally manages to get off the frickin toilet bowl and stumbles over to the sink. Spitting out the bitter aftertaste of puke, he grabs his toothbrush, scowling at the way his entire body protests the movement. Pushing his brush into his mouth, he pulls up his shirt, only to see that his entire left side is turning a dark, mottled purple color. It’s ugly as hell and it suddenly makes sense why he’s so out of it, his head still feeling like somebody is doing the conga inside his bloody brain. 

 

Unable to hold himself up, he sags against the bathroom wall, closing his eyes as his hands continue to brush his teeth on autopilot. Even  _ frowning _ hurts, damn it, and why does it feel like he’s forgetting something…?

 

Exhausted, head pounding, he turns to the sink to spit and that’s when he catches sight of his own reflection. 

 

No two ways about it – he looks fucked up. 

 

His eye is swollen and turning black and his busted lip hurts like a fucking motherfucker – that assclown, Gordon, gave him a beaut of a shiner.

 

Wait. 

 

Gordon. 

 

Fight…alleyway behind The Roadhouse _._

 

Oh fuck,  _ Sam! _

 

Dean’s eyes widen with realization and he spits out the mouthful of toothpaste he’s been rinsing with and then quickly throws back water to finish brushing before he rushes out of the bathroom, the memories of last night flooding his brain. Damn it all to hell, he went to get drunk because  _ Sam _ is coming home tonight and how the  _ hell _ did he forget  _ that _ ?

 

His shoes are still lying next to the bed where he threw them last night – the right one under the bed, actually – and he grabs at them, quickly wiping his face with a towel to clean himself up as best as he can without actually bathing. Stuffing his keys into his pocket, he runs out of his bedroom, sucking in a deep, harsh breath when his injuries protest flurry of movement and his head spins. 

 

He’s stumbling, he knows, his step unsteady and tired, his entire body aching and empty. But this  _ Sam _ , his baby brother who is coming home today – he has to put on a brave face, like always, because Sam  _ needs _ him. Determinedly, he puts one foot in front of the other, much like he did last night, refusing to stop. 

 

He’s at the top of the stairs when he hears it. 

 

“Thanks, Bobby.”

 

Sam. 

 

His brother is back. 

 

Sam is  _ back.  _

 

And then it hits him – Sam is back because  _ Bobby _ brought him home. Because Dean was  _ late _ , drunk off his head and in a bar fight that left his pansy ass unconscious in bed and Sam had to go and call their  _ uncle _ to come pick him from the rehab centre he’s been holed up at for the last six months. 

 

He’s failed his brother.  _ Again _ . 

 

The guilt wells up so fast, Dean feels lightheaded, the sensation of wanting to dry heave climbing his chest and throat again. He stumbles, hitting the floor this time with a loud thump and suddenly, he’s tired, just so  _ fucking _ tired, he doesn’t want to move at all. 

 

Sam hears the sudden thwack of the hardwood floor and from the look on the seventeen year old’s face, he’s definitely not alright. By the time Bobby picked him up from the centre, he was climbing walls and breaking out into hives from worrying about Dean. Fortunately, the older man brought good news – Dean was at home, passed out on his bed and finally sleeping after weeks of sleepless nights. 

 

The first time Bobby had driven up to see the boys, he hadn’t broken into the house, wanting to give them their privacy. But the news of Dean’s disappearance meant all bets were off; Ellen didn’t think twice about picking the lock and letting herself in, only to find her eldest boy fast asleep on his bed, without so much as getting under the covers. Heaving a sigh of relief, she called up Bobby and informed him that Dean was just fine and he better go bring Sam back and fast. 

 

So Bobby did just that and the tension flooded out of Sam’s face when he heard that his big brother was fine, not lying broken in some ditch someplace. Privately, the grumpy old man’s heart broke at the sight of the guilt and affection that flooded the teenager’s expression – he is  _ far _ too young to look like that, like the weight of the shoulders is on his shoulders. But he doesn’t know what to say, what can make everything better even now, so he just slapped the boy’s back in a friendly manner, drawing him in for a tight hug before ruffling his hair and driving him home. 

 

And now, Dean is awake. And the idjit is most certainly blamin’ himself for his stunt last night, Bobby has no doubt. With a sigh, he jerks his head at Sam, who swallows hard and nods in understanding, before walking over to the bottom of the stairs, where he hesitates. 

 

God damn it, it  _ hurts _ to see his boys unsure and broken like this; Sam and Dean are his sons in every way but blood and if there’s one thing he’s always counted on, it’s their bond, their affection for each other. He doesn’t doubt that the affection is still there, but the stubborn idjits are certainly not going to face their issues head on. They’ll bury it deeper and deeper until it blows back in their goddamned faces and then they’ll break the world – it’s the Winchester way, and he’s been witness to it since the day John married Mary and took off after her death. 

 

“Dean?” Sam calls out in a timid voice. His voice broke a while ago, close to his sixteenth birthday, but right now, he sounds like that little boy who stopped speaking for an entire year because he was so scared. 

 

They hear the sounds of shuffling, Dean moving around on top and a few quiet moments pass during which Sam hovers close to the stairs, wanting to go up and see his brother, but not knowing how. Dean’s footsteps sound heavy and exhausted and Bobby’s heart aches when the idjit finally comes into view, stumbling and trying to keep upright. 

 

His face looks like he’s gone three rounds with Godzilla and emerged a fantastic loser –  _ damn _ it, he should have  _ known _ last night when Ellen told him he was drunk last night that Dean was going to end up in some kind of trouble or the other. But he ignored the voice at the back of his head and didn’t check in and now, Dean’s payin’ the price. 

 

“Dean!” Sam cries at the sight of his big brother, eyes widening when takes in the busted lip and the swollen eye. He doesn’t hesitate this time, jumping up the stairs and Dean sighs when the younger boy’s arms wrap warmly around his shoulders, for once leaning into his embrace and accepting the offered comfort. 

 

“Heya Sammy,” he greets him hoarsely, pulling his little brother closer to himself, hugging him tight and breathing in the familiar scent. Sam reeks of the sterile hospital shit, like anesthesia and Lysol, but beneath it, he still smells like Sam –  _ his _ Sam – and despite all the unsaid things between them, all the bitterness and the anger, for just that instant, Dean feels the warm sense of  _ home _ and  _ family _ settle into his bones. 

 

Sam’s eyes burn when Dean hugs him – it’s awkward as hell, but  _ god _ , if it doesn’t feel good… He’s home, he’s back with Dean, and the world can go fuck itself, because the two of them are together again, the Winchester brothers against everyone else, the way it’s always been. 

 

Bobby clears his throat and asks, “What the hell happened to you, idjit?”

 

The moment, more precious than any china, shatters just as easily, and Dean draws back instantly, forcing his features into a quick grin, ignoring the way his entire face hurts when he does so.

 

“Some assholes wanted to use me for target practice, Bobby,” he quips, pushing past Sam and waking into the living room. He stumbles down the last few steps, but when Sam reaches out to grab his arm to steady him, he pulls it back abruptly, ignoring the sudden flash of hurt on his brother’s face. He’s still reeling, damn it, still processing that Sam’s back, that he’s  _ here _ and he needs time before he can play happy houses with him. 

 

“Dean,” god damn it, it's been too long since he was faced with that pleading voice or those stupid puppy dog eyes, “Dean, you look like hell, man.”

 

“Shoulda seen the other guys, Sammy,” he shrugs casually, inhaling sharply when his left side protests the movement with a screeching ache. Bobby notes the wince and raises an eyebrow at him, crossing his arms across his chest. 

 

“You need a hospital, boy?” he asks gruffly, knowing that Dean would deny it even if he did. He proves him right, just shaking his head and offering him one of those stupid fake smiles that tells him he’s hurting, but that he’s going to deny it until he’s dead and dying somewhere in a ditch. 

 

Damn, stubborn assed, idjit Winchesters. 

 

“I’m fine, Bobby,” he waves a hand in their direction, sinking into the couch and throwing his feet up. “I only  _ look _ like the Terminator kicked my ass, but I’m fine to work. I’ll be in as soon as I-”

 

“You’re takin’ the day off, ya idjit,” Bobby interrupts and sighs at Dean’s gob-smacked look. Really? The idjit thought he is gonna work  _ today _ , of all days, when Sam’s home? He should have expected it, he supposes – Dean is a master of burying all things chick-flick, and this ranks right up there with talking your feelings or admitting that he needs time off. 

 

Well, _he’s_ not gonna be an enabler on this one. 

 

“Bobby, I-I can't, I took off yesterday and-” he looks like a deer caught in the headlights, eyes darting to where Sam stands, expression equal parts hurt and tired. With a shrug, the teen just goes to quietly pick up the dufflebag where he dropped it in a rush to get to Dean and then moves further inside the house, walking into the kitchen. 

 

“You clearly needed the day off, Dean,” Bobby’s voice is gruff, but not unkind. “And Sam is back home today. Spend time with him. Help him get used to bein’ up and about in public again, he’s gonna need that.”

 

“Bobby, I…” Dean trails off, sinking into the couch until his body is half buried under the mass of pillows, rubbing a weary hand over his face, the words stuck in his throat. 

 

“Ya can't keep runnin, boy,” the elder man murmurs. “You tried it last night, but the truth is, you’re gonna have to face it sometime or the other. Sam needs you, and you can't pretend that you don’t need him.”

 

“I do,” Dean croaks, closing his eyes at the admission, “I do, Bobby. But… I don’t know how much more I can take, how much…”

 

The tears are pricking at his eyes, but he blinks them away. Sam’s home, and for now, he’ll take his victories where he can get them. 

 

“You’re gonna be fine, you idjit,” Bobby offers quietly, “Just… don’t give up, ya hear me?”

 

A moment of silence passes, during which they can hear Sam puttering about the kitchen. Then Dean just shrugs and nods listlessly, admitting defeat. If nothing else, his injured and tired body will need the rest and maybe he can get the grocery shopping out of the way today too. 

 

“Yeah, Bobby,” he says hoarsely, “Thanks.”

 

With a slight nod, Bobby turns to leave when Sam’s voice stops him. “You takin’ off?”

 

The teen is standing at the entrance to the kitchen with a glass of something green in his hands. Bobby offers him a nod. 

 

“Yeah,” he says, “Ellen’s waiting for me at The Roadhouse. She went back after checkin’ in on that idjit there,” he nods towards Dean, “And she’s bakin’ you a welcome home pie. I’ll bring her back with Jo in the evening. They’re both excited to see you, Sam.”

 

Sam nods, the hint of a smile on his face as he walks towards Dean and holds out the green-liquid filled glass. Dean scrunches up his nose at the proffered glass and glares up at his little brother. 

 

“The hell is this, Sam?” he asks and Sam just shrugs. 

 

“It’s a wheatgrass smoothie,” he offers with a bright grin and Bobby has to hold back a laugh at the sight of Dean’s sudden fuck-you-very-much-the-hell-is-this-shit expression. He’s seen it too many times over the years, usually when Sam insists on healthy, organic, rabbit food, and that he’s seeing it  _ now _ , when things are awkward and there’s a shitload of bitterness between them – it warms the old man, tells him that it’s gonna be alright, eventually. 

 

“You’ve been home for  _ literally _ half an hour,” Dean grouches, “Where the hell did you get that shit?”

 

“Andrea gave it to me,” Sam says cheekily, “She put together a care-package for me when I left. She wanted to meet you too, but…”

 

The smiles fade at the reminder of the mess that’s their lives and Bobby sighs, reminding himself to be patient. 

 

“You boys want anything before I go?” he asks, interrupting their little love-spat, raising an eyebrow. Dean just shrugs while Sam shakes his head. 

 

“Drive my baby back, would you Bobby?” the elder brother asks, throwing him the Impala’s keys. Bobby’s the only other person in the world he would trust behind her wheel, given that he’s the one who helped Dean rebuild her in the first place. The elder mechanic nods, catching the keys with both his hands, before turning to the door. 

 

“And tell Ellen to make the pie apple!” he calls out as Bobby walks out. 

 

“Like she’d make any other kind for you!” he calls back over his shoulder before leaving the house, muttering to himself, “Idjit.”

 

So things aren’t gonna be easy for a while. But Bobby has faith that his boys will eventually work it out. 

 

They always do. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Thoughts -
> 
> So I'm only... two hours late on my scheduled update time, but in my defense, I was out for a dance performance. Meh. This one was actually one of my favorites in so many ways; I'm an complete Dean girl, complete with a younger brother of my own whom I've been protecting from things for years, so I may have been projecting... (only a little, I swear!) And I wanted to explore Sam's head for a bit; obviously, I've always found it easier to get into Dean's head, so exploring what Sam might be feeling was fun. 
> 
> Thanks to all those who're reading, leaving kudos and bookmarks! Drop a line to tell me what you think - what'd you think of the first Destiel meeting? Romance is a long way off yet, I wasn't kidding about that slow burn. :P 
> 
>  
> 
> [ My Tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dusky-gold)


	4. Past meets Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting with the Principal throws Cas into a state of panic while Dean avoids his brother. Elsewhere, another meeting takes place that comes completely out of the left field. Angst and tissue warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS - Talk of Drugs and Overdose, Rehab, Recollection of torture and violence. 
> 
> As always, lemme know if there's any warnings I've missed! Thanks to my beta and my usual cheerleaders, love ya bitches!

**Chapter 3 - Past meets Present**

 

Dinner that night is the most awkward fucking thing Dean has ever experienced. From the moment Bobby left, the air has been utterly cramped and heavy with all the unsaid things between them, neither of them knowing how to break the ice. Sam is on the opposite edge of the couch, sitting stiffly, legs drawn in to his chest, back ramrod straight and it  _ hurts _ … hurts, because, once, the giant moose-girl would have flapped all over the couch, stretching out his legs even if they kicked Dean in the shin. 

 

It hurts that he doesn’t know how to exist in the same space as his little brother any more. And the silence is unbearable. 

 

So he pulls out the remote and switches on the damn TV, even if the only thing on their shitty cable is reruns of  _ Dr. Sexy _ episodes he’s seen a million times – he doesn’t care, because it just fills the silence, chases away the confrontation he knows Sam is itching to have. 

 

Sam huffs when the first screencap of Seattle Mercy Hospital comes onscreen, but he doesn’t protest, and suddenly, Dean feels a sharp ache in his chest. Once, Sam  _ would _ have protested, scuffled with him to grab the remote and then switched channels to put some boring Nature documentary or whatever nerdiness have you. Now, he just sits there, quiet and lost, and a part of Dean wonders if he’s craving  _ it _ , craving that utter completion under the influence of the heavy drugs that apparently replaced his brother. 

 

His skin crawls at the thought and he abruptly jumps off the couch. Sam looks up at him questioningly, but he shakes his head and proceeds into the kitchen, hands itching to break something, to do, nervous tension coiled tight in his belly. He putters about the sink, grabbing practically full glass of wheatgrass smoothie that Sam dumped upon him earlier for lack of anything better to do. 

 

_ Wheatgrass smoothie?  _

 

Does he look like a fucking hippie? 

 

But the smoothie brought to his face a smile the first time Sam insisted he take it, lit a warmth in his belly – because Sam is  _ still _ the same, still the big girl concerned about the environment and rabbit food and all those silly, stupid things that Dean made fun of but were so inherently a part of his baby brother. 

 

He wishes he could recapture that singular moment of knowing that everything was going to be just okay. Because this sure as hell doesn’t feel okay,  _ doesn’t _ feel like anything is going to fix itself, because he has no fucking idea what to say to the brother he so utterly failed to keep safe and sound. 

 

Breathing in deeply, Dean forces himself to ignore the way his thoughts clamor behind his eyes and focus instead on the sounds of Dr. Piccolo arguing with her ex-boyfriend on the screen while he rummages through the fridge. Honestly, he wants Ellen and Jo and Bobby here now, so that he can ignore it all a little while longer, so that he and Sam can at least look at one another without wondering what to say. 

 

The silence is stifling. 

 

So he decides to make dinner, despite being well aware that Ellen will most certainly bring food along with her. Damn if he’s not already anticipating her sinful apple-pie – that piece of desert is a part of home as much as any greasy cheeseburger is and he knows it’ll settle his stomach in ways that the smoothie just couldn’t. 

 

His hands are shaking and his head is still spinning lightly but Dean makes do, refusing to go back into the living room. Ideally, he should be back upstairs, catching in some shut-eye, because he has work tomorrow, and his body screams at every moment – son of a bitch Gordon fucked him up good – but he’s too keyed up to sleep, anxiety bubbling beneath his skin enough that he knows he’s going to have nightmares tonight. He’s not eager to see the faces that haunt his dreams, and so, he makes dinner. 

 

“Dean?” 

 

Sam’s voice is hesitant and tired as it comes from the hallway and he makes sure his back is turned to his brother as he responds. 

 

“Yeah, Sammy,” he grunts and peruses the contents of his nearly empty refrigerator to see what he can make. Reminding himself to go grocery shopping, he just sighs and pulls out the few vegetables he has, along with the small chicken he’d grabbed a couple weeks ago. It isn’t much, but a light chicken salad should be enough to keep him occupied until Bobby gets here with Ellen and Jo, and it sure as hell will Sam happy to see that he’s making that goddamned rabbit food again. 

 

“Wh-what’re you doin, man?” 

 

God, Sam’s voice sounds so  _ small _ . It makes Dean want to punch something repeatedly; his brother isn’t supposed to sound that way, isn’t supposed to be beaten down like he is. That’s the whole reason he came back home, whole reason he gave up everything.  _ At least he’s talking,  _ he reminds himself, trying to force the air back into his lungs, trying to force himself to take those small victories when they come. 

 

It’s been ages since Sammy’s voice sounded that small. The last time – a little over a year ago now – it was a blessing. This time, it feels like a curse. 

 

“Dinner, Sam,” he tells him pointedly, trying to keep his voice upbeat, utterly ignoring the awkwardness between them. “You  _ do _ need to eat to keep growin’ like the Beanpole you are,” the joke is weak and falls flat, but from the corner of his eye, Dean catches sight of that old bitch-face and it makes his heart twist with bitter affection. 

 

“Not my fault I’m taller than you,” he grumbles and that sulky tone is so much more  _ Sam _ , it finally brings a smile to his face. 

 

“Dunno how you did that, given all the rabbit food you eat,” he snipes, setting the ingredients on the counter, “And god help me, I’m makin’ you a salad. Fucking  _ salad _ .”

 

He groans theatrically but Sam grins for the first time since Bobby left and Dean counts it as a win. 

 

“Just because I don’t want to drop dead of a heart-attack before I’m thirty…” Sam says teasingly. There’s still a trace of hesitance in his voice, anxiety pouring off him in waves, but he’s  _ trying _ , and that’s all Dean can really ask for right now. 

 

“Bitch,” Dean mutters, finally turning to make a face at him. Sam makes one right back. 

 

“Jerk,” he says, grabbing a glass of water and going back to his seat on the couch. 

 

The smile that Dean’s lips curve into pulls at his facial injuries like a mother _ fucker _ , but he can't help the warmth that rushes through him. A single insult, their usual routine alone can't change anything, can't wipe away months of quiet bitterness and anger that’s been bubbling beneath the surface. 

 

But it’s a start. 

 

And Dean will never admit it, but that they can still have  _ this _ , still be themselves – albeit tentatively – around each other… it lights the smallest wick of hope in his chest and he’s terrified that it’s all going to come crashing down any second. 

 

So he doesn’t say anything else to make clear the air, which remains awkward as fuck. The cardinal rule of happiness is that you don't jinx it by doing something as stupid as  _talking_ about it - he's going to swallow the bile down his throat and keep his trap shut. 

 

Still, he can't help the grin that breaks out when the sounds of  _ Dr. Sexy _ vanishes and he hears a monotonous voice drone on about some species of snake in Africa. 

 

Sammy is home now. 

 

*-*-*

 

Mornings in the Novak  _ (Newman, now) _ household are always chaotic. Getting two kids – one still a toddler and the other in kindergarten – to bathe, eat breakfast, have their homework checked and then jump into the car so that they won’t be late, is  _ not _ an easy task. Add to that the fact that Castiel has to do everything by himself, unlike most parents, and each day more or less begins with confusion and messes that end up sorting themselves out somehow or the other. 

 

The day after he rescues that handsome stranger behind the bar is, incidentally, a Tuesday  and Castiel finds himself groaning into his pillows when his alarm goes off, bleary eyed and tired. He jams the snooze button on the damn phone and turns over. He didn’t get more than a few hours of fitful sleep after returning home, which, by itself, turned out to be quite the production. For all that Becky is a cheap babysitter and is willing to stay for as long as needed to help him out, she is also one of the most…  _ enthusiastic _ … people he has ever met – perhaps a little  _ too _ enthusiastic. Emma likes her well enough, but Claire is far more reticent, choosing to sit quietly whenever the perky blonde comes over. And besides that, she seems strangely interested in Castiel himself, smiling rather flirtatiously at him and dropping less-than-subtle hints his way. 

 

Once upon a time, he would have been utterly blind to her charms, guileless and clueless. The Castiel who could not identify when a woman is flirting with him no longer exists; Meg Masters has well conditioned him to identify –  _ and stay away _ – from potential partners, if only for the sake of his daughters. That doesn’t mean that casual flirting still doesn’t throw him off balance, though. In every way, Becky makes him uncomfortable, especially since, at just seventeen years old, she is close to being a decade younger to him. 

 

He was initially grateful to find a babysitter so willing to adapt to their quirks when they moved here; daycare centers were not really suited to his girls, especially with Claire’s mutism. But now, he’s beginning to rethink that idea – last night, Becky all but jumped on him when he came home, his own body still thrumming with adrenaline and restless energy. He pushed her away none too gently, ignoring her pouting as she left, thanking his lucky stars that the girls were already in bed and fast asleep by then. 

 

He slipped into bed, skin stretched tight and tension coiling beneath the surface. The man with the green eyes – Winchester – was at the forefront of his brain and all he could see was the exhausted look in those gorgeous eyes. So he slipped into the shower, turned the heat up as far as he could stand it and stood under the spray. Before he knew what he was doing, he was imagining those eyes widening in pleasure instead of pain, picturing those red lips – this time not busted or bruised – wrapped around his cock, Winchester’s pale face flushed with heat and ecstasy instead of weariness and hurt. 

 

He came all over his own hand like he hasn’t since…since  _ Meg _ , actually, and then threw himself into bed, trying to drown out the memories and the guilt. The man was beaten, bruised and tired – here Castiel was, using him for his own sexual pleasure. He hasn’t masturbated in months, always worried about when one of the girls could walk in on him, but the orgasm last night was one of the best he’s had in a long time and he wonders if it was because of the abstinence or because it was Winchester he was thinking about. 

 

He huffs as his alarm rings again, the snooze time up, and he yawns loudly, limbs sore from the fight and body still tired. The truth is that he’s probably never going to see Winchester ever again – he doesn’t even know the man’s first  _ name _ . So he might as well put him out of his mind and get to work. He has two little girls to awaken and send off to preschool and kindergarten, and if he knows them – and he does – it’s going to suck up all his energy. 

 

The prediction proves quite right when Emma refuses to get out of bed even on his third attempt to get her up. Claire’s already brushing her teeth, thankfully, but the three year old is as stubborn as they come and has the ability to frustrate him as nothing else does. 

 

“Emma Mary, if you do not get up  _ right _ now, I will drag you out myself,” he growls, throwing the comforter back and glaring at her small form curled up next to her pillow. Unlike most kids her age, beds are not new to her – Claire’s nightmares have always meant that they’ve been curling together since she was barely six months old, cuddled together under his watchful eye, instead of in her crib. But sleeping all by herself on a bed of her own – that is an entirely new idea, one that’s been in practice for only a couple of months.

 

And the three year old loves the independence, almost as much as she loves to drive him up the wall trying to get her out of her very own bed. 

 

“ _ S’eepin’ _ , Daddy,” she whimpers drowsily and he holds back a curse as he sinks into the bed next to her, running his hand gently but firmly down the length of her small back. 

 

“Emma, get up,” he tells her firmly, “You have preschool today and you are going to be late.” 

 

She cracks one very green eye open, lips crunched into a solid pout. “Don’ wanna,” she mutters and then pushes herself off her pillow, flopping into his lap with a loud thump. 

 

The move startles him, but more than that – it knocks the wind out of him. Castiel has to hold back a wince at the sudden ache; clearly, he did not come off entirely unscathed from last night’s altercation. But he wraps his arms around Emma nonetheless, ignoring the way his tender skin aches in favor of hugging his daughter good morning. 

 

“You’re going to make both me and Claire late for school,” he tells her sternly and she just moans into his thigh, a little girl cry that is utterly adorable and irritating at the same time. 

 

“Da- _ ddy _ ,” she whines, “Don’  _ wanna _ .” 

 

A hysterical chuckle escapes his throat and Castiel at the end of his wits, just rubs her back, voice turning into a plea. 

 

“I thought you were an elf-lady, Emma,” he tries a different tactic, “Isn’t that what you wish to go as for Halloween? Elf-ladies are rarely late; they’re always on time and absolutely ladylike. If you wish to be one of them, you cannot hide away in bed.” 

 

“Da bed’s my secre’ la-laia’, Daddy!” she protests, stumbling on the word  _ lair _ , “An’ am an elf… elfs come ou’ at  _ nigh’ _ … not mornin’!” 

 

She rubs her face into his thigh and he just sighs as Claire wanders in. Her bedroom is opposite to her sister’s, both situated on the first floor, with his own room next just down the hallway so that he can remain close and available to both of them whenever they need him. 

 

She’s finished brushing her teeth and is looking wide and fresh, a small smile on her face at the familiar sight of her little sister being difficult. She clambers up to the bed, settling in next to Castiel and leaning into his side. He wraps an arm around her, resigning himself to be utterly and completely late for school today, silently thanking god that he at least has the first period free. 

 

Emma looks up from his lap and offers Claire a big smile, opening her arms out for a hug. The blonde grins, accepting her embrace, shifting so that both of them are now cuddled on Castiel’s lap, leaning against him. He brackets them with his arms, drawing them both close, and the restlessness he’s been carrying around since last night finally fades away, a sense of peace settling into his bones. Despite the knowledge that they are all going to be impossibly late,  _ family _ wraps around him with all the warmth of a heavy blanket on a cold winter’s day. 

 

“Claiwe!” Emma exclaims, “Tell Daddy tha’ elfs play at nigh’, and mornin’s are for s’eeping!” 

 

Claire looks at Castiel with a lofty expression, like he should already know this little fact.  _ Em’s right, Daddy,  _ she signs,  _ elves play at night! They dance around the fire, holding hands and singing beautiful songs to the moon. Mama Missouri told us, remember? _

 

Castiel chuckles hysterically, nodding his head, “My apologies, girls,” he tells them gravely, “I don’t know how I could have forgotten such a pertinent detail.”

 

Claire glares at him, cerulean eyes wide and annoyed.  _ Don’t forget again _ , her fingers turn stern and a distant corner of his mind wonders at how she manages to convey her tone even when she’s not speaking. His little girl doesn’t have her voice any more, but she certainly knows how to make herself heard.

 

_ I miss Mama Missouri, _ her hands tremble and Castiel leans down to stroke her long, marigold-hair, gently untangling the knots one by one. Wisps of Emma’s hair are falling out of her pigtails and he tucks them in behind her ear too, cherishing the way she leans into his touch trustingly. 

 

“So do I, Claire,” he murmurs and for a moment, they fall silent. Then he tenderly pushes them away, glaring when Emma refuses to move. 

 

“Elves you can be and play at night on Halloween,” he says firmly, “But today, you’re little girls. And little girls listen to their fathers and get ready for school,” he pushes Claire’s hair back, “Or preschool, as the case maybe,” he nods his head at his youngest. 

 

_ But Daddy, only Em’s an elf, _ Claire protests, her face taking on an innocent expression, and Castiel’s eyes narrow,  _ I’m Batman, remember? _

 

“And if Batman was late to stop a villain, who would protect Gotham City?” he snarks back at her and she just sighs in defeat. “Go on, get ready for school, both of you.”

 

Emma groans, just about ready to flip back into bed, but he glares at her, grabbing her tiny body with his full arms and lifting her up as she shrieks in surprise. 

 

_ “Daaa-ddy!”  _

 

Surprise turns into laughter when he growls and throws her into the air, catching her quite easily. She giggles loudly at the way he pokes at her sides, tickling her mercilessly and yanking her off the pillows. 

 

“ _ Up _ , Emma,” he tells her sternly and she pouts, this time relenting as Claire wraps an arm around her with a soft grin. 

 

A lifetime time ago, it was  _ Claire _ he was throwing into the air and tickling into submission; it was her giggles that used to light up the air. Emma has never heard her big sister’s voice, has never experienced the joy of her chuckles and it saddens Castiel every time he thinks about that. He pushes the thought away as he bends down to drop a kiss on her golden head, jerking his head towards the toddler who is finally jumping off the bed. 

 

_ I’ll help her brush, Daddy _ , she signs, accepting his kiss and offering one of her own, pecking his cheek with soft lips before she follows her sister into the bathroom. He sighs, left alone to his thoughts and begins the long process of making the bed and picking out Emma’s clothes for the day, laying them out on the bed so that he can help her get dressed once she gets out. 

 

The routine of it comforts him and once he’s done, he goes downstairs to fix himself much-needed coffee and get breakfast started. Most days, they settle for something small, like cereal and juice and today is no different. It’s only on the weekends that he has time for more elaborate set ups. He quickly gets everything ready, and by the time the girls call him up to help them dress, he’s already on his third cup of coffee, the caffeine settling hot in his empty stomach and putting some vigor into his step. 

 

They quickly finish up their morning routine, Emma no longer being difficult. Instead, she is full and energetic and he marvels at the way she can go from refusing to get out of bed to jumping excitedly in the car in so short a time. Her optimism and carefree nature is one he wishes to protect – the way he could not protect  _ Claire’s _ – and he breathes in the fresh morning air, smiling brightly as he starts the car, the girls safely buckled into their seats and ready for school. 

 

Emma’s preschool and Claire’s kindergarten are situated right next to each other, fortunately for him. They jump out, the former’s infectious enthusiasm rubbing off on the latter as it so usually does. He leans in to press a kiss to the corner of their little rosebud mouths, offering up a soft,  _ “Have a good day, girls,” _ before they rush off into their respective buildings. He waits until their small forms disappear, that parental anxiety never really fading away, before he unclenches his shoulders deliberately and starts up the car again, on his way to Sioux Falls High School. 

 

His good mood lasts all of twenty minutes as he walks into his classroom. Despite the fact that his first period is free, he finds a student – Kevin Tran, no less – waiting for him there, a nervous look on his face. 

 

“Mr. Tran,” he greets with narrowed eyes, “May I help you?”

 

“Uh, yeah, Mr. Newman,” the teenager replies, “Mom, uh-sorry, Principal Tran wants to see you. Right away.” 

 

Castiel doesn’t comment on the slip-up, knowing how tough his position as the Principal’s son is for the young man. His mind is preoccupied with the pending meeting in any case; it's been barely three months since he started here, and in all that time, Principal Tran has never specifically asked to see him, except to check in with him to see how he was settling into his new job. 

 

With a loud exhale, he nods at the dark-haired teen, and says, “Thank you, Kevin. I’ll meet with her immediately.” 

 

With a timid smile, Kevin turns and scurries out, clutching at his backpack and rushing to his first class. Castiel rubs his forehead, feeling the beginnings of a headache form at the base of his temples, now regretting last night more than ever. 

 

Honestly, he hasn’t raised a hand to do anything more than teach Claire and Emma basic self-defense in four years. What on  _ earth _ possessed him to jump into a mid-brawl and fight like a madman? 

 

Sighing, he drops his bag on his desk before he turns and walks out the way he came, making his way down the hallway and into Principal Tran’s office. Her secretary, on the phone, just waves at him, gesturing for him to enter and he moves forward, worry bubbling in his stomach like acid and sitting heavy on the cold cereal he consumed. 

 

Linda Tran’s soft but firm voice announces a clear, “Come in,” at his knock and he pushes the door open to see her standing at her desk, frowning at some papers she’s holding in her hands. 

 

“Ms. Tran?” he calls, “You asked to see me?”

 

She looks up, pushing her glasses back on to her face from the tip of her nose, and offers him a small smile. 

 

“Ah, Mr. Newman,” she greets him, “Yes, please, have a seat. There is something I need to discuss with you.”

 

“Is everything alright?” Castiel asks in a rush, frowning, “If there is a problem with the syllabus I’ve picked or if I have gone against conduct-”

 

“No, no, Mr. Newman,” Principal Tran cuts him off with a fond chuckle, “No, you’re doing perfectly fine. It’s not about you.”

 

“Oh,” Castiel sits down, leaning back against the chair, at a loss. What else would she need to discuss with him? He asks her openly and is surprised to see the way she sinks into her seat, a far-away look on her face. 

 

“You’ve heard the stories, no doubt,” she begins, posture and countenance suddenly looking tired, “About Sam and Ruby and the whole deal that went down a couple of months ago…?” 

 

Castiel frowns, trying to recall the stories. He has been at Sioux Falls High for only a little while, but he  _ has _ heard the rumors, the whispers of the young boy and girl who got into the drug circle and nearly died as a result. 

 

At the time, he paid it little heed, except to offer up a prayer for the kids, and mourn at the loss of innocence. The story struck a little too close to home – how many such lives have his brothers, has  _ he _ himself ruined like this over the decades the Novaks have been in business? Not liking the comparison, he simply put the rumors out of his head and focused instead on bringing English Literature to life within his classroom, trying to teach a bunch of rowdy teenagers to love Dickens and Austen and Joyce the way he himself does. 

 

“A little,” he admits to her, “But I'm not entirely sure of the details.”

 

Principal Tran sighs, taking off her glasses and pulling out a small scrap of soft cloth that she uses to wipe the lenses with. 

 

“We’ve kept it quiet,” she mutters, “Because our school really doesn’t need the kind of bad publicity. Plus, Sam is a good kid… he just… fell in with the wrong crowd, I suppose. And with his family condition, I can hardly blame him.”

 

“Family condition?” he questions, curious now about this boy who is apparently a favorite of Principal Tran’s. 

 

“Long story short, Mr. Newman,” she tells him, “Sam is… his mother died when he was a baby, and his father signed over custody of him to his elder brother when Dean was barely nineteen and then took off, disappearing to god-knows-where.”

 

Castiel is startled at the revelation; sympathy stirs in his gut for both the boy and his brother. He knows what it’s like to accept such a huge responsibility at such a young age – he  _ lived _ it, with things going from bad to worse when he had to cut and run, carrying a traumatized toddler with him, no less.

 

“CPS didn’t do anything?” he asks quietly and Principal Tran’s gaze turns sharp.

 

“Dean’s  _ very _ much capable of looking after his brother,” she insists and Castiel takes the hint. Sioux Falls is a small town, with a tightly knit community. For all that he’s now living here, he’s hardly part of that community yet – there’s more to the story, but he’s not going to be privy to those details anytime soon. Accepting her reticence, he leans back to listen to the rest of whatever she does have to offer. 

 

“What we didn’t expect was Ruby,” she sighs. “New to town last year, and she got Sam hooked on heroin and before we knew it, the kid was shooting up practically every day. And it was all happening right under the bleachers, in  _ my _ playground, under  _ my _ very nose.”

 

The disgust he hears reflected in her voice is aimed at herself and he sympathizes with the woman who cares so deeply about the students in her care. He understands now, having worked as a teacher for more than a couple of years. That faith that parents and guardians place in them to look after their kids when they can't – it’s a heavy cross to bear sometimes. 

 

“What happened, Ms. Tran?” he asks softly. She exhales loudly, pinching her nose before putting her glasses back on and peering at him through the wiry frames. 

 

“Overdose,” she mutters, “As you’d expect. Both Ruby and Sam. We found them nearly dead under the bleachers and rushed ‘em to the hospital. Both survived, but Ruby’s father withdrew her out of school and ordered her return back to Michigan, where she was originally from.”

 

“And Sam?” 

 

“Sam…Sam was admitted into rehab,” she admits. “For six months.”

 

Understanding flashes through him then. “He’s out now…?” it’s not a question, more of a statement, but she nods her acquiescence anyway. 

 

“Yes,” she agrees, “And that’s why I called you.”

 

“Pardon me, Ms. Tran,” he tells her softly, “But I don’t see how  _ I _ can help. Not that I don’t want to, but I don’t even know him.”

 

“Precisely, Mr. Newman,” her voice is tart, “You don’t  _ know _ Sam Winchester. You’re distanced from the situation in a way the rest of his teachers aren’t. The next few months… I fear they are going to be challenging for him as it is.”

 

Wait…  _ Winchester? _

 

Castiel sits up, heart hammering in his chest, the world suddenly too small and the air suddenly too stale. It can't be… can it? The man from the alley last night _ … _

 

_ Winchester… _

 

The timing fits… he was drunk and exhausted… an emotional response to the return of his little brother? And… didn’t that black man say something about him owing money…? 

 

_ “Stay ‘way fr-from Sammy…Tell your boss to stay ‘way too.” _

 

Winchester’s voice, clear as day, rings in his head, and Castiel’s heart sinks – no doubt about it, this Sam is  _ definitely _ the brother of the man whose life he possibly saved last night. Which means…

 

Stay away from his brother?  _ Money? _

 

Good lord, what’s he gotten himself into now? 

 

Castiel forces the panic away, breathing in deeply and trying to focus on what Principal Tran is saying. 

 

_ Red… so much red… and then hot and cold… _

 

“What…what can I do?” he asks quietly, head and heart pounding, suppressed memories flashing behind his eyelids. 

 

_ A sharp pain in his extremities, and those cries, god, those  _ **_loud_ ** _ cries…  _

 

“Just help him,” she says. “Don’t treat him any differently. He’s going to be behind in his work as it is. We arranged for him to take his finals separately, once he got out of the hospital so that he could pass on to the next grade, but given that he’s joining us in the middle of the term… he’ll need all the help he can get.”

 

Castiel nods, mind racing and spinning out the possibilities. Whatever it is, he’ll help – he’ll  _ definitely _ help – but if it crosses beyond the boundaries of general tutoring or mentoring, he  _ will _ back out. He forces the breath back into his lungs, pushing away the memories and the silent echoes. 

 

Even a  _ hint _ of the drug business means danger… Lucifer and Michael have contacts everywhere and if they even catch a  _ sniff _ that he’s still alive, that he didn’t die as the rest of the family thinks, that  _ Claire _ is still very much breathing…

 

_ Oh, good god, Claire and Emma… _ has he already fucked up again? Were the men from last night part of whoever sold to Sam? Did they recognize  _ him _ at all? 

 

Is he going to have to run a second time? 

 

The panic is steadily rising, a tightly coiled snake of tension beneath his skin and Castiel has to force himself to breathe again, to focus on getting through the day. 

 

_ Da-ddy… Daddy-Daddy, I-I… Mom-Mommy is… Daddy, no…  _

 

“I will do everything I can, Ms. Tran,” he offers absently. She smiles at him, but he’s already miles away as they both get up to shake hands. 

 

“That’s all I ask, Mr. Newman,” she nods towards the door, a clear dismissal and he walks out on autopilot, fear prickling the back of his neck. 

 

Good god, what has he  _ done?  _

 

*-*-*

 

Wednesday and Thursday pass without much incident and Dean begins to let his guard down. He returns to work at the garage and takes up more hours at the bar, wrangling time out of Ellen. Fortunately for him, Layla decides that she wants a vacation. Halloween is this Saturday – something that completely skipped his mind in the wake of Sam’s return – and since she has two boys aged nine and five, she decides to take the rest of the week off to stitch them both handmade costumes this year. 

 

So he racks up her hours on his credit as well, trying to avoid home and Sam. It’s cowardly and stupid and he knows Ellen is going to corner him and whack him hard, but he’s just not ready to face anything yet. He’s not ready to face his broken brother, he’s not ready to see how badly he failed, and he’s definitely not ready to talk about anything as Sam will force him to. 

 

(Kid’s always been a giant girl; after sixteen years, Dean’s stopped questioning where he got the tendency from given that both he and Dad would rather shoot themselves than confront  _ feelings _ ). 

 

So he stays away for as long as possible, throwing himself into fixing cars, serving drinks and flirting with anything on two legs for those extra tips. Granted, he  _ does _ need the money – rehab was not cheap and he ended up dipping into a huge chunk of Sammy’s already small college fund. Now, he has to make up for it – that’s his excuse and he’s sticking to it. 

 

Of course, he should have known the respite wouldn’t last long. Ellen is not one for subtlety. Neither is Jo. 

 

They corner him, exhausted and hungry, on Thursday night, just after he’s finishing up his shift and wiping down the counter. It’s 3 a.m., and he has an early shift at the garage tomorrow, which means he’ll have to leave home by 8. That gives him around four hours of sleep, which is certainly far more than he’s had in the past few months. 

 

“How long you plannin’ on avoidin’ your brother, kid?” Ellen’s voice is stern, gruff and Dean sighs, because damn, he should have seen this coming. He looks up to see both her and Jo standing there, arms crossed over their chest. In this moment, they look so alike, such a fearsome mother and daughter duo, that he feels the absurd need to laugh. 

 

“I’m not avoiding anything,” he grumbles, bringing his attention back to the counter he’s wiping off. The bar is empty, closed for the night and he’s tired from pulling in a double shift tonight – he left frozen dinner for Sammy to heat up, but he hasn’t been home since last night. Besides, Sam’s old enough to look after himself and he certainly doesn’t need Dean. 

 

_ I’m almost sixteen, Dean, I can take care of myself, I don’t need you! _

 

The voice, a long-forgotten echo, resounds in his head, worsening his headache – apparently not-so-forgotten, after all. In the past year, Dean’s been run down and broken, and  _ goddamn _ it, he just wants to finish his job and go home and sink into bed. 

 

“That why you ain’t goin’ home before Sam’s in bed?” Jo picks up for her mother and Dean sighs, turning his back to them deliberately under the guise of setting up the glasses in their proper glasses on the shelf behind the bar. 

 

“Dean,” Ellen sighs and walks past the counter and into his space. She corners him close to the shelf and reaches out to snag his arm, pulling him close to herself. He lets her, just this once, wrapping his arms around her and accepting the comfort that she offers… because he’s tired,  _ oh _ -so tired of having to be the strong, of being the one holding everything together when all he wants to do is fall apart and scream. 

 

“Go home, kid,” she tells him quietly. “You can’t reconnect with Sam if you keep avoiding him. You can’t help him if you keep runnin away.”

 

“I-I…I  _ tried _ , Ellen,” he croaks, “I tried… so damn hard. But…”

 

Jo joins them now, wrapping her own arms around him, pulling him into a three-way hug. “It wasn’t your fault, Dean,” she tells him, compassion coloring her voice gentle. “It wasn’t Sam’s fault either… things just… _ happened _ . Doesn’t mean you can't get past them now.”

 

He looks at her, not even attempting to hide the tears brimming in his eyes. “I don’t know how,” he tells her miserably. 

 

What do you say to the brother whom you sacrificed everything for, only to find out that everything wasn’t enough in the end? 

 

How do you  _ forgive _ that brother? 

 

He doesn’t know. 

 

And neither Ellen nor Jo have anything concrete to offer him, except a warm hug and a soft kiss. 

 

It isn’t an answer, but it’s enough for the moment. 

 

He lets himself indulge for a long, uncomplicated sixty seconds, breathing in the scent of their combined perfumes, Ellen’s maternal warmth fading into Jo’s sisterly embrace, before he pulls back and pushes them away. 

 

“I-uh, I have to go,” he says, and the elder woman nods, her gaze turning sharp. 

 

“You’re takin’ the rest of the week off,” she tells him firmly. 

 

“Layla's off too, you  _ need _ me!” he protests, already knowing that it’s useless. Jo snorts. 

 

“I can handle it, Winchester,” she insists. “The world won’t end because you ain’t here to look after things for a couple days.”

 

He glares at her, opening his mouth to retort when Ellen smacks the back of his head. 

 

“No arguments, boy,” she says. “Spend time with your brother. Pick out a Halloween costume, go trick or treating, hell, watch porn for all I care.”

 

“Should we braid each other’s hair and paint our nails too?” he snarks back. “Maybe go dressed as a couple mermaid hookers?”

 

Jo offers him a feral grin, “Sure,” she whispers conspiringly, “And once you’re done with that, let’s head over to Archangel Ink to get our hoohaas pierced… I was thinking simple studs for me, what’s your take on that?”

 

Dean groans, yanking at her long hair. She yelps, slapping his arm and he glares at her. 

 

“Damn it, Jo,” he mutters, “Didn’t need that image in my head.”

 

She laughs merrily, smacking his ass as he walks out. He yells, turning back to find her smirking. “You started it, Winchester,” she whistles. 

 

He continues to grumble all the way to the door. 

 

“Don’t come in here tomorrow or I’ll throw you out myself,” Ellen calls as he walks out, juggling the Impala’s keys in his hand. 

 

Damn woman probably would too; she has a frickin’ shotgun and she’s not afraid to use it. Man, what did he ever do to deserve such bloodthirsty women in his life? 

 

But his lips curve into a soft smile at the sight of Jo waving after him in the rearview mirror and a warmth settles into his chest as he drives home. It’s not quite enough to chase away the icy feeling of discontent that rears its head when he opens the door and tiptoes his way to his room, but it’s a start. 

 

It’s the best he has to offer himself for now. 

 

*-*-*

 

The Englishman strides into the motel, shoulders held tight with tension as he takes a long puff of the cigarette he holds in his hands.  _ Sioux Falls, South Dakota, _ he muses,  _ has been one bloody heck of a ride, _ and his heart races at what he might find awaiting him in Room 616, where he’s arranged to meet his informer. He throws the cigarette on the ground and then crushes it beneath his perfectly polished shoes, breathing in the cold, night air deeply. Gordon Walker better have worthy intel, or he is going to rip the bloody wanker apart. 

 

He forces on to his face the most charming smile he can muster, finding his usual grace slipping with the nervous anxiety that simmers low in his belly. The receptionist is a young lad – maybe about twenty years old – and he leans his arm on the counter with a raised eyebrow. 

 

“Room Number 616, mate,” he tells him, “I was to meet a friend here...?” 

 

“Oh he’s already there,” the lad waves his hand about, but he scrunches up his eyes in annoyance, “And between you and me, he’s a weird one.”

 

The man frowns a bit. “Oh?” he asks, carefully keeping his voice neutral. “Pray tell, weird in…what way, exactly?”

 

The boy’s scowl deepens, “He’s like… like a six year old on a sugar rush,” he answers, “Stole all our Halloween candy right out of that bowl.”

 

He points to the big, ceramic bowl that’s been placed next to the bellhop. The number of sweets within the bowl is conspicuously low and at the sight of it, the Englishman freezes, heart racing and palms sweating. 

 

_ This… _

 

_ This  _ couldn’t _ be possible.  _

 

But then, the news that came through on Monday… the reason he’s here in the first place, in the middle-of-bloody-nowhere…  _ that _ shouldn’t be possible either. 

 

“Here, take your key,” he accepts it, body moving on autopilot. 

 

The world is shrinking down to the length of the corridor he walks and before he knows it, he is standing in front of Room 616, inserting the keycard into the locker. The door swings open and on the dirty, small bed of a roadside motel in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, he finds a brother he thought was long dead. 

 

It isn’t the brother he  _ expected _ to find.

 

“Gabe,” he breathes. “You-you’re supposed to be  _ dead _ .”

 

The lollipop hangs out of his mouth, the dark blonde hair has been gelled to perfection and the smirk on his face still makes the corner of his eye crinkle. 

 

“And so’s Cassie, but it was him you came here looking for,” Gabriel Novak’s stance is casual, but experience has taught him that those eyes don’t miss anything. He’s a true trickster, a master of charade and a sudden choking wells up in his throat at the sight, so very familiar. 

 

“What’s going on here, Gabe?” there is no levity in his voice, only frustration and Gabriel sighs, gesturing for him to come in and take a seat. 

 

“We need to talk, cuz,” he says seriously. “It’s a long story.”

 

“I’ve got time.”

 

The expression on Gabriel’s face turns tired and faraway.

 

“ _ You _ do,” he says softly, “But Castiel doesn’t.”

 

He turns the sentence over in his mind, examining the ramifications of it, assessing the implications it holds. 

 

Castiel is  _ alive _ . 

 

_ Gabriel _ is alive. 

 

He strides in then, determination coloring his every step and kicks the door closed behind him. 

 

“Tell me what’s going on here,” Balthazar Novak demands.

 

And Gabriel does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Thoughts - 
> 
> AAAAND the plot thickens! We have a bit more background on Cas and why he left the family. I've been making a lot of allusions the boys' past and relationships and if things are coming off as disjointed, then it's meant to be that way. Things will be picking up soon, the next few bits are practically writing themselves and I can't wait to hear what y'all think about it! The romance is coming soon, I promise - right now, it's barely a physical attraction, if that... I just feel like I need to set up the rest of the characters, since they're all going to be playing important roles in the unfolding drama! 
> 
> Thanks to all those who left kudos and bookmarked! See you in two weeks!


	5. Reminiscence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watching the girls in the park makes Dean want to reconnect with his brother, but a phone conversation throws a wrench into that plan. Meanwhile, Cas reluctantly takes his daughters out despite the perceived dangers. Angsty Fluff, Tissue Warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS - Mentions of drug addiction and rehab, graphic recollection of torture and physical abuse, fighting and hurting a minor (of sorts...? they're brothers, so does it count?)
> 
> As always, thanks to my beta, Baya-the-dragon and my three cheerleaders, Dede, Ru-dog and Aej. Enjoy!

**Chapter 4 - Reminiscence**

 

The day after Ellen and Jo corner him in the bar, Dean manages to avoid going home before Sam gets back to sleep by hanging around at the garage and pulling a couple extra hours on the Camry he’s been restoring. Neither of the Harvelle women have apparently informed Bobby about his forced time-out; in any case, the grumpy old bastard doesn’t come out of his office, demanding that Dean leave like he thought he would. So the mechanic gets a good three hours of extra time to himself, fixing up the car with more care than he would usually give, checking and rechecking every nut and bolt.

 

The truth is that he’s just a fucking coward and he doesn’t want to go home yet. By the time he does get back, Sammy’s already had dinner and gone to bed and Dean doesn’t know whether to be grateful or sad.  He’s up bright and early the next morning, too keyed up to sleep and leaves a couple of scrambled eggs on the table for when Sam awakens, slipping out of the house and heading over to the garage.

 

He should have known that it wouldn’t last long; Bobby smacks his head and kicks him out the garage before he can even get into his overalls.

 

“Bobby!” he protests and the old man just rolls his eyes.

 

“It’s  _Halloween,_  ya idjit,” he grumbles, “Even if you wanted to work, we’re closed, remember?”

 

Dean deflates, mentally cursing himself for having forgotten that tiny detail. Bobby generally keeps the garage open even on Saturdays for those of them who are willing to work – Jo often shows up, as does grumpy old Rufus and he never misses it. Together, they generally manage to keep a full shop even on the weekend, though Sunday is a day off for all.

 

He forgot that today isn’t a typical Saturday, that it’s Halloween. He supposes that somewhere at the back of his mind, he _did_ know – it’s why he took on those extra shifts at the bar, after all. But since Ellen and Jo kicked him out, he’s been wandering around in a dazed state, and though he knew Halloween is this Saturday, he forgot that today is _that_ Saturday.

 

He’s not even making any sense to himself. God, he needs to get his shit back together. Ellen and Jo were right; he can't avoid it any longer. Today’s fucking _Halloween_ and he didn’t even ask Sam if he wanted to do something to celebrate.

 

Then again, neither he nor Sam have had a proper Halloween celebration since Mom died. Sammy’s first Halloween had truly been his last; over the years, he’s tried, again and again, to imitate some of that joy, some of those precious moments that Mom created. They’ve never had enough dough for a proper store-bought costume, but he’s tried everything from plain white sheets to pass off as a ghost to a battered, old blue shirt and red cape he painstakingly stitched together to make Sam Superman.

 

But Dean’s not Mom, and the only good he can do with his hands is underneath the hood of a car. Sam hasn’t participated in Halloween in years and after the accident, neither of them was inclined to dress up for a stupid festival to eat candy and play dress up. Last year, though… last year, Sam went to a high-school party. Dean was glad then, happy that his little brother was at least getting some fun in, until he found out _who_ Sam was going with.

 

Ruby.

 

The hell bitch dragged his studious brother’s ass from the library to her friend’s house, which, looking back on it now, was probably not so much a friend as a supplier. She stuck a pair of devil’s horns on Sam’s head and the put him in a tight shirt, and claimed that was all the costume Sam would ever need. Dean was furious, but Sam insisted, and even though he didn’t like her, he never can say no to Sam.

 

He should have.

 

God, he _should_ have said no right then and there, put his fucking foot down and stopped his little brother from falling for her sweet, hellish charms.

 

But he didn’t, and now they’re all paying the goddamned price.

 

“Go _home_ , Dean,” it’s Bobby’s turn to repeat the same shit to him and the hysterical laugh is stuck in Dean’s throat as he offers his pseudo-father a tired nod.

 

“Yeah, Bobby,” he mutters, “Thanks.”

 

Walking out of the garage, Dean jumps into his baby and puts her into gear, cruising around the neighborhood, unwilling to go home just yet. He grunts as his elbow hits his against his left hip – goddamn it, that still aches like a bitch. His side is still bruised, though the angry purple color has begun to fade somewhat. He was relieved that he didn’t harm any ribs and his mind wanders to the dude who saved him.

 

Guy was a badass, but he was strange. The stupid brown trenchcoat made him look like an accountant, but no pansy ass number-cruncher has the ability to take down three guys at the same time, one of them being Gordon-fucking-Walker. Maybe he has martial arts training…? Looking back, Dean has to admit – the guy was hot as hell. He doesn’t remember much, the entire night blurred by the alcohol he consumed, but he does remember the lean strength of his body as he helped him back home. And he remembers those eyes.

 

Christ, those damn _eyes_ … they were the color of the evening sky on a stormy day, something blue and something dark. If the man caught him on another day or if he didn’t have to go pick Sam the next day, he would have fucked him in the backseat of the Impala just to watch those damn eyes go wide with pleasure.

 

But he _did_ have to pick Sam up… of course, he fucked that one up too, just like he fucked up well and good when Gordon demanded the cash that Sam still owed his goddamned supplier.

 

He should have just gone to the friggin’ police the day the damn bastard first showed up. Instead, he shut his mouth and handed over the cash, knowing that the cops were never going to believe a college drop-out struggling to take care of his drug-addicted brother – not over the word of one of the most powerful men in the entire town.

 

_Fucking Crowley._

 

He spent the six months Sam was in rehab busting his ass off at the garage to pay him off. He charmed, he smiled and he flirted at the bar – hell, he even let a couple of perverted assholes cop a feel for those few extra bucks. He tore himself apart, but he paid off the debt.

 

And now the assclown is back. Dean’s not sure if he wants to march over to his three-storey mansion and demand answers or just let it slide; since the attack in the alley when they took him by surprise, there’s been no word from any of them. Maybe Gordon, ever the hothead, decided to take matters into his own hands… maybe he didn’t know that Dean’s debt’s been cleared, that Sam is out of their grasp now.

 

God, what if Crowley decides that it’s not enough? What if he decides to come after Sam? The thought sends chills down his spine and suddenly, the worry about Sam’s return fades away into concern for Sam’s safety. That, Dean knows, is something familiar. Keeping his brother safe is something he can do, _has_ been doing for years. He may have failed to protect Sam from himself, but he’s always kept the kid alive and unharmed from the bullies that tried to hurt him.

 

The sound of a loud horn yanks him out of his thoughts and Dean grits his teeth as he puts the Impala into reverse. With a low growl, he parks his baby on the sidewalk and jumps out – he doesn’t want to go home yet, though he knows he can no longer avoid anything anymore. If Crowley wants Sam, Dean’s gonna have to up his game. He can’t run away anymore.

 

It’s still early morning and the crisp autumn air is cold and refreshing and he breathes in deeply, wishing things were easier, that he and Sam could just go back to those days when they could goof off on days like this. Even when Sam didn’t _talk_ … even when he kept quiet, they knew their way around each other, they knew what every silence meant. Now, the silence _echoes_ in a way that makes Dean cringe.

 

He has no idea what to do about it.

 

There’s a playground in front of him and he heads over there, mentally planning out the rest of the day. He doesn’t know if Sam has anything planned for Halloween – the kid’s just been studying nonstop since he returned, so Dean doubts that he does. So maybe… maybe he’ll cook dinner tonight and they can chill out on the couch like they used to before everything went to hell. It’s not much, but it’s a start, and it’s all Dean can afford right now.

 

And Crowley…

 

Seating himself on one of the stone benches that litter the playground, Dean lets himself breathe out loudly, wondering what he should do about the drug dealer that ruined Sam’s life. The short, British bastard came to Bobby’s garage on a day when he was the only one there, late at night, left to lock up and since then, Dean’s been his little bitch. But he’s paid off the debt now, cleared all books – so why the hell is he still on his ass?

 

God, if only Sam didn’t choose to shoot up… if only he had the fucking brains to come to Dean when things were going rough, instead of choosing Ruby over him… if only… _if only…_

 

A peal of tinkling laughter draws his attention away from the burning in his eyes and the lump in his throat. He blinks away those goddamned tears and raises his head, wondering who would be stupid enough to come out so early in the morning, that too on Halloween. The playground is almost empty, all its usual occupants busy at home getting into costume for a fun day of trick-or-treating, but he sees that there are two little girls by the swings.

 

Long red-hair streams out behind the younger girl like a crimson carpet as the blonde pushes her from behind, a soft smile on her face. Stubby little legs poke out from beneath the skirt that’s flying in the morning breeze as she laughs out loud, whooshing and whistling in utter glee.

 

“I’m fl’yin’, Claiwe!” she giggles, “Higha! I wann’ tell Daddy I flieded!”

 

The elder sister’s shoulders shake in silent laughter and she obeys the command. But even from here, Dean can see the careful way in which she handles the swing, making sure to push only as far as her own small arms can reach so that the younger one doesn’t fall or hurt herself.

 

It makes his heart ache.

 

A memory, old and forgotten, offers itself up to him from the corners of his mind.

 

_“Higha, Dean!”_

 

_Dean grunted as he lifted up a four-year old Sammy into the sky. The kid was not very big for his age, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t hell on his eight-year old skinny arms. Sam loved to pretend that he was flying and he was hardly one to say no to his brother._

 

_Especially when Dad was never around and didn’t bother to even pick up his son unless he was crying his heart out._

 

_“I’m flying, Dean!” Sam yelled in excitement, “Go faster! Faster!”_

 

_Dean’s arms ached from the effort of holding up a forty-pound toddler, but he forced a grin on to his face and then waved him above his head, doing as his little brother bid him to. He growled a little, faking a horrid accent, and said in his best announcer voice, “By day, a preschooler, by night, Super-boy!”_

 

_“I’m Superboy!” Sam laughed in delight, punching the air and just then, Dean’s arms gave out. Fortunately, he’d had to foresight to play this particular game on top of their shitty motel bed, so when he dropped Sammy, the boy only fell on to the mattress, bouncing a little before flopping onto the pillows with a big whoof._

 

_Instead of being annoyed at his brother, his giggles only escalated, small hands flailing as he kicked at the air._

 

_“Dean, Dean, Dean!” he cried in excitement, and though his muscles were screaming and burning in protest, the teenager grinned back, bouncing on the bed and falling to his side so that he could gather up his little brother in his arms and tickle him mercilessly._

 

_“N-no,” Sam gasped, “No, de-Dean, stop, stop… haah…Dean, no…haaa.. De-Dean!”_

 

_He curled in on himself, peals of tinkling laughter escaping his lips and Dean’s own chuckles added to the mix._

 

_In that moment, all was well within their world._

 

“Higha!”

 

The girl’s soft, pixie-like laughter yanks him back to the present and he finds, almost against himself, that the corner of his lips turn up in a small smile.

 

“Claiwe! I’m flyin’!” she shrieks with laughter and then, “You’we tuwn!”

 

She grabs at the side of the swing, clutching at the suspenders holding the whole thing together and Dean can only watch, heart aching, as the bigger girl slows it down and carefully helps the little one off. The redhead immediately pushes her elder sister on to it with those chubby little arms, all pale and freckled and utterly adorable. The blonde obediently seats herself on the seat, leaning back and the younger kid just circles on to the side and pushes her.

 

The picture they paint is entirely too sweet; Dean’s chest tightens with emotion as he watches the big girl surreptitiously kick at the ground to give herself momentum, even as her baby sister sticks out her tongue and breathes heavily as she pushes the swing with all her might.

 

God, he’s failed Sam so many fucking times, it’s a wonder the kid even wants to be connected with him at all. And still… still, that spark of anger and hurt lingers in his chest, burrowing itself deeper and deeper into his psyche. He wasn’t enough for Sam… he wasn’t _enough_ and now, neither of them know how to get past that.

 

He _wants_ this again… he wants to be able to punch his brother’s arm in jest and not have him tremble in anxiety, he wants to be able to have one goddamned conversation without the ghosts of the past lingering between them, he wants to be able to ruffle Sam’s hair and threaten to cut those precious locks, because _damn it, Sammy, you’re not Rapunzel, for fuck’s sake!_

 

The girls grab his attention again when the elder one stops swinging and scrambles off the swing, grabbing her little sister’s hand. The redhead scurries forward and a look of utter joy explodes on her oval face as she raises her other arm and waves wildly to someone on the opposite side.

 

“Da- _ddy_!” she shrieks and Dean can't help but grin – damn, the girl has a set of lungs on her. In contrast, her sister hasn’t said a single word yet, though her face is telling enough. She’s watching her with a fond, exasperated expression on her face, one that is common to elder siblings the world over and one that Dean knows all too well.

 

“ _Da_ -dddddyyy!” she yells again, pulling on the elder girl’s arm and running to where their father is presumably standing. From his vantage point, Dean can't see much, just the outline of the man – he looks to be about six feet tall, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt.

 

Something about the man is familiar; it tugs at Dean’s mind and he frowns as he watches the man go down on one knee and open his arms out to his daughters. The redhead drops her sister’s hand and crashes into him, but her sister is no less – she races to him with the same enthusiasm and Dean can see him laugh as he gathers them both close and picks them both up at the same time.

 

Clearly, he’s had a lot of practice at this.

 

He can't hear them anymore, they’re too far away, but he watches as the man nods seriously, accepting the loud babbling the younger girl is spouting. The elder one buries her face in her father’s neck and he runs a hand down the side of her hair, walking briskly towards the exit of the park, their voices growing fainter and fainter, the forms growing smaller and smaller until they vanish completely.

 

Dean exhales loudly, his eyes burning again. Damn wind, making them water…

 

Dean _tried_ . After Dad decided to leave them, after he signed over custody, Dean tried. He tried his _hardest_ , he is _still_ trying the best he can. Maybe Sam didn’t see it then, but _he’s_ not going to run away from the truth anymore.

 

Whether or not he’s enough for Sam, he’s all that’s left. At the end of the day, Dean will sell his soul to keep his brother safe and Sam is just going to have to fucking accept that fact. Yes, he’s pissed, yes, it’s not the life he wanted for himself, yes, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to forgive his little brother for choosing drugs and _Ruby_ over him… but, he wants Sam _back_ , and if he has to extend that goddamned olive branch, then he’ll man the fuck up and _do_ it.

 

Dad’s gone now. Dean doesn’t know when he’s coming back, _if_ he’s coming back. Sam’s all that he has left.

 

He jumps off the bench and strides determinedly towards the Impala.

 

It’s time to go home.

 

*-*-*

 

 _Red… hot red, as his thighs were branded with the Novak crest. His back was already on fire, the wings carved into them like an avenging angel, as though he was meant to be something more than this whimpering creature, trying to roll in on himself and just make it_ **_stop_ ** _._

 

_It was so red… such a bright, pretty, horrid, reddish-red, behind his eyelids and in his brain… and in a distance, Meg’s voice, cooing over him, soothing his fevered skin with ice-cold something covering his forehead._

 

 _“Hang in there, Clarence,” her voice, sultry and hot and oh-so-relieving… she was here, she was_ **_here_ ** _and she would make everything alright, make the pain go away like she did after Gabe died… after Anna left._

 

_Claire… where was Claire? He had to get to Claire, he needed her -_

 

_“Father,” her voice sounded farther away and Castiel cried out, moaning for her, broken whispers escaping his lips as he reached for her with shaking, trembling arms._

 

_Red turned blue… hot became cold as he was suddenly drenched in icy water. He shrieked at the millions of pins and needles that stabbed at his abused skin, rubbing it raw and peeling it back as though he was little more than a pig in a slaughterhouse._

 

_Anna’s laugh… her soft touch and the warmth of her loving kiss… and Gabriel’s jovial laugh, his rough fingers ruffling through Castiel’s unkempt hair… red and blue and blonde and grey, so much grey…_

 

_Claire’s soft, sweet giggle, all innocence and mischief rolled into tinkling silver peals…_

 

_“Ah, Castiel, such a good boy, you are.”_

 

_Azazel._

 

_Meg had called her father._

 

_Her father, who was red, black and blue all rolled into one, whose only edict was serving Lucifer._

 

_The red was back again, but it was blue this time and Castiel ignored the way his back and thighs burned ice-hot as he curled into a ball, whimpering and crying. Garbled words flew out of his mouth, but his throat was hoarse from having screamed for hours together._

 

 _“Stay still, Clarence,” Meg murmured and Castiel reached out for her blindly, looking for the one safe place where the red would_ **_stay_ ** _red and the blue would stop hurting so much._

 

_“This will all be over soon,” her voice was soft, tender and he latched on to it, the only familiar thing within the sea of noise and pain and white he was floating in. Strange, that the voice of the woman who brought him into this mess in the first place was the same thing that soothed him now._

 

_The red was becoming bluer now… and the heat was becoming hotter and colder at the same time, his back burning as his thighs shuddered against the ice._

 

_And then…_

 

_Quiet._

 

 _Utter quiet in which he could_ **_hear_ ** _the silence._

 

_“Me-Meg?”_

 

_He might have called out, or that might have been in his head, he didn’t know._

 

 _Red and blue and quiet and white and so much, so_ much _, burning and cold and he wanted to Claire because it hurt, it_ **_hurt_** _, it_ hurt _–_

 

Emma tugs on Castiel’s hands and he snaps out of the memory, feeling the icy-burn of the past fade away into the present. His heart is hammering and he’s sweating despite the cold, fall morning air, hair sticking to his forehead. Beneath his shirt, the scars are itching as they haven’t in years; he knows it’s a phantom pain, triggered by the worry of the past few days, but all he wants is to reach out, scratch and claw at them till they vanish, until not even a hint of his past exists.  

 

“Da- _ddy_!” his youngest daughter’s voice grounds him – not unlike Meg’s did when Azazel was torturing him. It’s a disturbing comparison so he forcefully pushes it away. Castiel looks down to see that Emma is practically vibrating with excitement, her grip on his hand tightening as the playground they’re heading towards comes into view.

 

“Yes Emma?” he smiles at her, swallowing against the threat of memories that overwhelm him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Claire watching him with something akin to concern and it floors him. She’s all of _five_ years old; she should be running around with her sister on the playground and worrying about worms and leaves, not what nightmares her father faces.

 

“Pwaygwound!” Emma claps her little hands excitedly, dropping his palm and doing a little, funny hop and Claire’s expression turns into a bright smile, one that finally puts Castiel at ease.

 

Last night was not easy; old nightmares, long kept suppressed reared their ugly heads and he tossed and turned, worrying that he’s given himself away, that the girls are in danger again. Coming to Sioux Falls was supposed to make things _easier_ for them; it’s such a small town that neither Lucifer nor Michael – both elitists of the highest order – would ever consider that he, Castiel _Novak_ , would settle down in. It’s far enough away from Illinois that they’re safe and close enough that Castiel can keep an eye on the news well enough to run if they needed to. It’s supposed to be _safe_.

 

And it _was_.

 

Until _he_ went right ahead and jumped into saving someone he doesn’t even know, all because the man has the most beautiful, expressive eyes he’s ever seen.

 

Even now, worry about what the Novak family might do if they uncover the existence of their ‘dead’ son is churning in his belly, tension keeping his back straight and senses alert and wary. He’s hyperaware of his surroundings as he hasn’t been in years; every move has him on edge and every _shadow_ is suspect.

 

Such worry meant that sleep was a rare commodity last night; in the end, he just gave up and bundled himself into Claire’s bed, where Emma was already cuddled into her sister’s side. He slid in beside them, bracketing their small forms with his own, running his hands through their soft hair and breathing in their little-girl scent, so familiar to him.

 

If something happens to either one them, he isn’t sure he will be able to bear it.

 

Morning came, bringing with it the pale-pinkness of a sleepy hope as Emma yawned and flopped on to her tummy with a loud groan. Claire placed her golden head on his lap and looked up at him with wide, crystal-blue eyes, a request evident on her face even as her fingers shaped out the words steadily.

 

 _Can we go to the park now?_ she asked tentatively, _we have hours and hours before trick-or-treating and I want to have an adventure today._

 

He grinned at her then, happy that his baby girl could still want adventure even after all she’s been through, and nodded.

 

Emma peeped at them through one green eye, “We goin’ somwhewe?” she asked drowsily and Castiel had just scooped her up, throwing her in the air and catching her, savoring her delighted squeals.

 

And now, she’s squealing again, eyeing the playground predatorily. It’s empty, as he expected it to be – it’s early morning on Halloween. Trick-or-treaters come out in the evening but most kids he knows are probably working on their costumes or sleeping off the excitement until the sun sets. He’s doubly glad that he took the time to finish putting the final touches on the girls’ costumes; honestly, he is quite excited to see them get dressed up himself.

 

“Swin’!” Emma cries, dropping his hand and then racing off to where the swings are. Castiel doesn’t stop her, but he does quicken his footsteps, eyes trained on her small form while tightening his grip on Claire hard enough that she shoots him a questioning look.

 

 _Daddy?_ she signs and he shakes his head with a sigh as Emma beckons her sister to join her.

 

“It’s nothing, sweetheart,” he murmurs. Going down on one knee, he tucks a long strand of molten gold behind Claire’s ear and then presses a quick kiss to the corner of her mouth, which turns up in a sweet smile.

 

“Go on, then,” he motions towards the swings, which he knows are Claire’s favorites too. He’s yet to set up the swing at their house as he promised on that first day here, and sudden regret floods him as he watches his five-year old race over to her sister and gently help her sit on top of the small paddle that holds the contraption together. Keeping his eye on them, he swears that he will get it done as soon as possible; his girls ask for so little and he wants to give them the whole world.

 

He’s just about to join them so that both of them can enjoy swinging at the same time when his phone vibrates in his pocket. His heart leaps to his throat and he tenses for a moment before he relaxes, realizing that it’s just the alarm he’s set reminding himself to speak to Missouri as soon as possible, to do some quiet reconnaissance work.

 

With a sigh, he pulls out his phone and leans against one of the trees, keeping the girls in his direct line of vision. He quickly takes stock of the park; it’s empty but for the one occupied bench opposite to him and the swings. A man sits on it, wearing a brown, leather jacket – he has short, cropped hair that looks to be beige-colored from here. From some reason, the man’s silhouette strikes Castiel as familiar, something ticking away at the corner of his mind. He chases it, pricks at it, but it eludes him, so with a huff of displeasure, he lets it go, vowing to keep a quiet watch on him from a distance.

 

Eyes still searching the area for any potential threats, he dials Missouri’s number, biting his lip anxiously as he waits for her to answer. It rings twice, thrice, four times before he hangs up in frustration – clearly, she’s busy. He’s not surprised; it’s Halloween, after all, a time for horror and mystery and psychics, so she’s probably flooded with customers wanting to know their fortunes or get a reading of their auras.

 

It doesn’t mean that he’s not worried. He breathes out deeply, mind clamoring at the memories and pushes down the feeling of red-blue-cold-hot and focuses his attention on the girls, watching them quietly from a distance, ready to jump in the second they need him.

 

Emma is laughing out loud as Claire pushes her from behind, a gentle smile on her face. It doesn’t take long before the redhead is getting off and pushing her sister on the swing herself – much as it hurts to see his daughters giving up their innocence and taking up responsibility at such a young age, it is also a bittersweet knowledge, because once, long ago, Gabe and Anna and he looked out for one another in this exact manner.

 

 _God,_  he misses his brother and sister. His chest aches, sometimes, to the point that he finds it hard to breathe and he has to remind himself to inhale, lest he choke on the lump in his throat.

 

“Da- _ddddyy_!”

 

Emma’s definitely got Anna’s temper and voice. The thought makes him smile as he walks up to them. In his peripheral vision, he sees the man on the bench turn towards them, head tilting to the side, and it makes his stomach squirm with anxiety. Suddenly, the park is too open, too exposed, and all he wants is to bundle his girls up, take them home and hide them away until goddamn Lucifer and Michael and the rest of them just _disappear_.

 

He taps his watch when Emma makes a face; it’s been more than an hour since they came here and he has to make lunch before they can get started on their costumes for the day. Becky is coming over to help later; the thought makes him wince, but really, he has no choice – he can't get them both ready on time by himself.

 

Last year, Missouri obviously swooped in and handled everything neatly like only she could; Claire’s fairy-maiden was ready to go in contrast to Emma’s classic pumpkin in just two hours. This year, it’s Emma’s turn to take on a mystical creature’s role, and though Castiel is a man far too familiar with female braiding techniques and make-up – he’s had to be, with being a single Dad to two girls – he’s still going to need all the help he can get.

 

Musing that he really needs to find a sitter who doesn’t make his skin crawl, he goes down on one knee, opening his arms just in time – Emma crashes into them, half-pouting, half-laughing as he gathers her close, extending another arm around Claire, who joins the embrace. In a swift and practiced motion, he yanks them both close to him, getting up and turning back towards the gate.

 

“I _flw’ied_ , Da-ddy!” Emma claims, “Didja see me?”

 

He nods gravely, “I most certainly did, Emma,” he tells her, stroking Claire’s hair to one side so that it stops tickling the skin of his neck. “Any higher and you might have touched the stars.”

 

She looks up at him with wide, expectant eyes and Claire’s attention is drawn to them too.

 

 _I want to go to the stars someday, daddy,_ her movements are slow, wistful and Castiel feels something akin to heartbreak at the faraway look in her too-blue eyes.

 

“You’ll get there, Claire,” he mutters as he strides out of the park and in the direction of their small, two-storey home. “I’ll make sure of it.”

 

She sighs, nestling into his side, burying her face in his shoulder. Emma babbles on excitedly about flying and swings, and, “Da-ddy, wh’n we gonn’ put up swin’s of ouws?”

 

He laughs then, the tension seeping out of him for a few moments.

 

“Soon, Em,” he promises, “As soon as I can, alright?”

 

“Pwomise?” she looks at him suspiciously, apple-red lips drawn up into a pout that is so reminiscent of Anna at her most stubborn that Castiel wants to laugh.

 

“I promise,” he mutters solemnly and turns his head to the side as Claire regards him with a stern look.

 

 _Pinky swear_ , she holds out her little finger demandingly and he has no choice but to swallow the laugh that bubbles in his throat as he grabs at her pinky with his own, meeting her probing gaze squarely.

 

“As soon as I can,” he whispers again and the pouts melt into adoring smiles. “I _promise_.”

 

*-*-*

 

In hindsight, Dean should have known that it was going to happen, should have known that the universe conspires to fuck things up for him just when he tentatively accepts that he can do something, _anything_ good. It figures that he spent half the morning thinking about the man and the one evening he reaches out to Sam is the evening when fucking Dad calls.

 

Sam is home, sitting at the kitchen table with his books spread out all around him. Kid’s been studying his ass off since he came home three days ago; Dean doesn’t even try to stop him, knowing how important schooling is to his little brother.

 

_If only he’d remembered that before shooting up behind the bleachers…_

 

Pushing away the uncharitable thought, he drops his bag on the couch and throws his keys into the key bowl, striding into the kitchen with a jovial, “Hey Sammy!”

 

Sam looks up, momentarily distracted from whatever physics and chemistry’s had him distracted for the past couple days. Dean can't really blame him; he’s been avoiding home, leaving the teenager to his own devices. Given that he doesn’t really have any friends and that the house is damn near empty of any fun games or whatever shit it is that teens like to do these days, Sam’s taken to burying himself in his books and then slumping over them at night.

 

“Dean,” he returns, surprised. A flash of warmth lights his eyes before it vanishes and those walls are up again. Dean holds back a sigh.

 

“What’d you want for dinner?” he grins, trying his best to squish down the annoyance and resentment that’s bubbling beneath his skin. They have to start _somewhere_ , and he’s determined to fulfill his promise to Ellen and to himself, to _try_.

 

“Uh…” Sam looks unsure, “Don’t you have a shift at the bar tonight?”

 

That’s right, Sam doesn’t know that Ellen threatened to shoot him if he returned this week. Dean just shakes his head, washing his hands at the sink. It doesn’t mean that he’s going to talk about his feelings or whatever, but he does want to spend a simple evening on the couch, bantering about movies or TV shows.

 

That much, he _can_ do.

 

So he tells Sam, “Nah, Ellen gave me the night off. Thought I’d make dinner, break out the second pie she dropped off that day…?”

 

He leaves it open to Sam to accept the olive branch, meeting his probing gaze squarely. For a long moment, his younger brother just stares at him, brows meeting in the middle of his face in a tired frown.

 

Then, the corner of his lips curve into a hesitant smile and Dean exhales in relief, glad to see the way those stupid puppy-eyes make a reappearance. God _damn_ it, he’s missed that expression.

 

“Cool,” Sam agrees.

 

Dean walks around him, reaching out to ruffle his too-long hair and flicking droplets of water in his face. Sam yelps, gathering his books close to him and offering him a trademark bitch-face.

 

“Dean!”

 

“What’d ya want for dinner, Sasquatch?” he asks and Sam rolls his eyes, turning his attention back to his books.

 

“Mac and cheese,” he demands and Dean’s eyes _don’t_ burn, _no_ they don’t, because his brother’s right _here,_  making demands and being _himself_ and it’s the best thing he’s had in a long, long time.

 

“Good choice,” he grins and turns to the stove, pulling out the ingredients and getting started on dinner. It’s simple and it’s easy to make, but it’s what Sam wants, and Dean has never been one to deny his little brother.

 

They work quietly, Sam on whatever he’s studying and Dean making dinner. The air’s still tense and loaded with a hundred different things that sit on the tip of Dean’s tongue, but the smell of the pasta chases it away and the warm exhale he hears Sam let out when he places a steaming hot plate of food in front of him soothes the unease in his belly.

 

“Thanks, Dean,” Sam mutters and he doesn’t say anything, but punches his brother on the shoulder, chuckling at the reappearance of the bitch-face. They grab their plates and move to the living room, where Sam switches on the TV, flipping through the channels until he settles on a showing of _Die Hard_. Dean grins, a warm, happy feeling lighting his belly – he’s got his brother, he’s got tasty food and he’s got his favorite film of all times on the screen. Things aren’t anywhere near good, but for now, this is enough.

 

They don’t say anything, but they sit down together in front of the TV, Dean on the couch and Sam on the floor, resting his back against Dean’s legs stiffly. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, but it’s everything he wants right now. So he just lets it be, resisting the temptation to lean over and rustle Sam’s hair once more or call him Samantha just for the fun of it. He settles back against the cushions instead, ignoring the tightening of his chest and focusing on the screen, taking the moment as it comes.

 

The moment falls apart when the phone rings.

 

Both Dean and Sam freeze, before the former exhales loudly and jumps up, walking into the kitchen to yank the receiver off its cradle from the wall. He shoves it into his face, irrationally angry at whoever’s disturbed the few moments of precious peace he has with his brother.

 

“Yes?” he growls.

 

“Dean.”

 

The last thing he expected was that voice.

 

Dad’s voice.

 

 _Dad’s_ called.

 

Fuck it all to hell.

 

He should have known that the universe wouldn’t let him have anything good without screwin’ it up first.

 

“H-hi, Dad,” he croaks, wincing at the way Sam’s head whips across the couch to stare at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes.

 

Goddamn, Sammy’s gonna _kill_ him for this.

 

“I called to check on you boy,” Dad’s voice is gruff, but beneath it, Dean hears the undercurrent of worry and concern. Despite all appearances, Dad does care, he’s _always_ cared.

 

And that is what keeps Dean going, even when he has to go hungry to put food on the table, even when he has to blow a couple of guys behind the bar to get Sam those new sneakers, even when he shoplifted candy bars so Sam would have something to pass off as a Christmas gift.

 

Dad could try harder, he _should_ try harder, but in the end… in the end, looking after Sammy is _Dean’s_ job. Dad _cares_ , and for Dean, that’s going to have to be enough.

 

He made his peace with that fact a very long time ago.

 

That doesn’t mean that Sam agrees.

 

And that’s evident in the way he sets the plate of half-eaten pasta on the kitchen table and strides over to where Dean is standing, back ramrod straight as he instinctively calls on his childhood training in the presence of his general.

 

“We’re fine, Dad,” he tells John Winchester. “Sam, uh… Sam’s home. And he goes back to school this Monday.”

 

“Good,” Dad says, “I’m glad you’re watchin’ out for him,” and Dean’s back goes ramrod stiff with the sudden wave of pride that nearly knocks him over. He’s _doing_ it, doing his job and what Dad wants and _maybe_ … maybe if he does it well enough _this_ time, Dad will come back home. Maybe this time, Dad will be able to spend at least Christmas with them. If not for him, Dad will come home for Sam.

 

A small seed of hope plants itself in his chest and he has to force air into his too-tight lungs.

 

But Dad has nothing more to say. Sam glares at him from his spot at the kitchen table where he’s parked himself and Dean’s throat is too tight, the lump too hard to swallow. The phone goes silent, awkward, and the words are on the tip of Dean’s tongue. _When’re you –_

 

“You still there, boy?” Dad cuts in before Dean can get the words out and he smacks the palm not holding the phone over his eyes, silently cursing.

 

“Yessir,” he mutters, aware that he’s lost his one chance to ask Dad to come home. The knowledge sits bitterly on his tongue and Sam’s lips purse in quiet anger.

 

“I need you to do something for me, Dean,” Dad demands and Dean nods even though he cannot see him.

 

“Of course, Dad,” he answers instinctively. Sam scowls, leaning over to try and grab the phone and Dean dodges him, swatting at his long, gangly arm. Damn, the kid’s growin’ like a weed.

 

“I need you to wire me some money,” Dad orders.

 

“How much?” Dean’s heart is racing, suddenly worried. He’s in a crunch right now, with Sam’s rehab and return to school; he doesn’t think he can spare too much without dipping into the college fund, which has already been diminished.

 

“A thousand dollars.”

 

Dean goes silent. One thousand dollars is a _huge_ fucking amount of money and Dad knows it; on a good month, Bobby manages to pay him around two grand and Ellen _maybe_ one including the tips he earns by flirting and being charming. What Dad is asking for is essentially almost half his entire salary. It’s too much.

 

It’s not like Dean has a choice.

 

“Dean?” his reticence doesn’t escape Dad’s notice. “You there boy? I need the money before-”

 

Sam manages to yank the phone out of Dean’s grasp and he growls, pushing at his brother to get it back. The moose is already taller than him, though, and keeps his brother at bay as he scowls into the receiver.

 

“-lives are at stake and I need the grand wired _now_ -”

 

Sam’s blood runs cold.

 

“You bastard,” he hisses, not sure if he’s speaking to Dad or to Dean, who has a stricken look on his face. Dad is an asshole – it’s something that Sam has known his whole life, a constant he strangely relies on, just like the fact that the sun rises or the wind whistles through the streets. But _Dean_ … Sam will never understand the blind faith that Dean has in the man. He promised – Dean _promised_ that they would move on, that they wouldn’t let Dad fuck up their lives anymore and still, here he is, asking how high when Dad asks him to jump.

 

Dad pauses, cut off and then asks cautiously, “Sam?”

 

“You called…for _money_?” the dangerous undercurrent in his voice does not go unnoticed by John Winchester.

 

“How are you, Sam?”

 

He ignores it anyway and Sam’s pissed, vision tunneling until all that he can see is the way Dean’s eyes are shiny with tears he will never admit to shedding.

 

“What the _fuck_ are you thinki-?” Dean chooses that moment to grab the phone back, pushing Sam back to the table and forcing him to sit on the chair.

 

“Shut _up_ , Sam,” he growls, swiping a shaking hand at his eyes and then holds the receiver up to his ear once more, voice contrite and expression heartbroken. Sam’s heart sinks and he swallows convulsively, suppressing the raging memories he sees behind his eyes. Dad _left_ , he fucking signed him over and walked away.

 

Dean thinks he doesn’t know but Sam does – he _does_ . He knows that his brother has starved himself for him; he _knows_ that he’s sold himself on the streets, and he knows that his _first_ word was _“Dea’!”_ and _not_ Dad because the asshole was never around and it was _Dean_ who raised him.

 

“Dean, Dad is-” he begins, but his brother deliberately turns his back to him.

 

“I’ll send the money, Dad,” he mutters into the receiver. “But I’m not sure how soon it’ll reach you. Today…today’s Halloween and tomorrow’s a Sunday, so…”

 

“Just send it over,” Dad growls and Dean knows he’s pissed, knows that his conversation with him means that he’s not coming back, not anytime soon. And suddenly, he’s tired, he’s just so fucking _tired_ of it all.

 

“Yessir,” he says, and then hesitantly, “When…when will we see you-?”

 

“I’m busy, Dean,” Dad cuts in angrily, “Lives are depending on me.”

 

He opens his mouth to say that he understands, of _course_ he understands, but he and Sam are depending on him too, they want him _back_ –

 

The phone slams down on the other end and all Dean can hear is the long, consecutive beeping of the dial tone. It’s a harsh, cold, loud sound, signaling that Dad isn’t coming back, not now and maybe not ever and the anger, sudden and hot, strikes at his heart like a grenade missile.

 

He bangs the receiver on to its holder and then whirls around, rage pumping through his veins. _Fucking_ Sam, had to go open his mouth and shoot off at Dad, can't for _once_ in his life look at it from Dean or Dad’s perspective and if at all he’s _ever_ tried, it made him so sick that he went into shooting up so that he could just get _away_ –

 

“Are you happy, Sam?” he growls menacingly, voice low and simmering with bitterness. “Are you fucking happy?”

 

“Dean, Dad called for _money_ -” Sam begins, just as pissed and Dean cuts him off.

 

“I know!” he yells, “I was right _here_!”

 

“He asked for a _thousand_ goddamned dollars, Dean!” Sam yells right back, jumping up and striding over to where he’s standing, hands trembling from the force of his temper. His stomach is bubbling with tension he’s struggling to keep leashed.

 

“He’s a bounty hunter, Sam,” he hisses at his little brother, “He needs the cash because he’s out there, saving people-”

 

“Like he saved _Mom_ ?” Sam’s voice is bitter and Dean freezes, because fucking no, he did _not_ just go there, he _didn’t_ –

 

“Like he saved _Bill_?”

 

Bill Harvelle’s death ruined them all and god _damn_ him for bringing that up right the fuck now. That’s it. That’s _it_.

 

Dean’s _done_.

 

He’s coming apart at the seams, wound so tight that he’s gonna snap at any second, heart racing and chest tightening, because Jesus-fucking- _Christ_ , Sam knows where to hit so that it friggin’ _hurts_.

 

“He tried, Sam,” Dean’s voice shakes as he murmurs the truth that he’s known all his life. “He’s _tried_.”

 

“But he gave _up_ , Dean!” Sam roars, throwing his hands up into the air, “he gave up. He just… upped and _left._  I wasn’t _talking_ , I was traumatized and he just fucking _walked_ out because he’s a goddamned coward who hasn’t _stopped_ running since the day Mom died-”

 

Dean punches him.

 

The hit lands squarely on Sam’s face, smashing into his cheek so that his head spins to the side and a loud yell breaks through his lips. His younger brother struggles, yanking at his arms, but Dean holds on, putting him into a headlock that is no longer funny or a show of affection, but anger and hate and venom and all those things that he’s been holding back for months and months. He’s lashing out, the hurt overflowing from the empty, cavernous nothingness that he’s been carrying around for more than a decade, and it’s dumb and stupid and _fucked_ up to take it out on Sammy, but he _can't_ go there, he can't blame Mom and Dad and whatever the fuck it is, because if he _does,_  then –

 

 _Nothing_ meant _anything_.

 

Giving up _college_ , giving up freedom, _losing_ Mom and Bill and his goddamn virginity to the guy who fucked him for a few measly dollars – it all meant _nothing_.

 

It _can't_ have meant nothing.

 

So Dean just yanks at Sam’s hair so hard that he can feel the strands give and come loose into his hand and punches his brother’s shoulder hard enough to leave purpling bruises.

 

“Don’t you talk like that,” he bellows, blind with the tears that burn his eyes, “Don’t you _dare_.”

 

Sam coughs, trying to push him back. It doesn’t matter that he’s taller, he’s still scrawny and lanky. Dean’s bigger, heavier and has the advantage as he pins him to the ground.

 

“He’s a bastard, Dean,” Sam hisses into his face, “He hasn’t shown his face since _that_ Christmas and he’s _never_ coming back. And you’re a goddamn fool if you think otherwise.”

 

Dean freezes for the third time that night. Sam doesn’t say anything else, grip still tight on Dean’s arms, and the two brothers remain locked like that, on the floor, tired and knowing hazel eyes meeting confused, pained green ones as they just stare at one another for a long, long moment.

 

The silence echoes with everything that Dean wants to say, with everything that is stuck on the tip of his tongue. Behind them, the big grandfather clock that Jo picked up at an old garage sale years ago – when Bill was still alive and things weren’t fucked to hell – for a single buck, _ticks_ and then _tocks._

 

Then the gongs are going off to indicate that it’s seven o’clock on Halloween evening and Dean’s been pummeling his brother to the ground for the past ten minutes.

 

Dean just hurt his brother.

 

The same brother that he’s supposed to always, _always_ watch out for… the same baby brother that is _his_ responsibility, the same brother whose entire right eye is swollen shut from the punch that _Dean_ landed on his face.

 

He’s his brother’s guardian. And he just fucking slammed him into the ground in a display of violence.

 

_Fuck._

 

With a loud cry, he throws himself off of Sammy and then jumps up, slamming his hands on to the kitchen table so hard that it shakes, a second, pained roar escaping his already-busted lips. His entire left side, finally healing from Gordon, now burns like a motherfucker again, but he doesn’t give a shit.

 

He just hurt _Sammy_.

 

His eyes are blurry and his head is spinning and aching, but he grabs the chair and yanks it hard, throwing it over his head. It crashes against the floor with a resounding bang, two of the legs crunching and then cracking into two and Dean’s still angry, he’s _so_ angry, but the rage is accompanied by fear and disgust and an icy coldness in his veins that makes him want to throw up.

 

“De-Dean?” Sam’s voice is so tentative, as if he’s afraid, as if he’s terrified that Dean’s going to hit him again and it shatters something within the twenty-one year old.

 

He whirls around, stalking towards the door, intending to get as far away as he can. He can't hurt Sammy, he _can't,_  fucking _hell_ , he’s _shaking_ with the effort it takes to put one step in front of the other, but he has to get away, he _has_ to –

 

The small but tight grip on his hand stops him.

 

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam murmurs from behind him.

 

And a sob bubbles in his throat, dying on his lips, because this is so _familiar_ , this has happened _so_ many times that he’s lost count. He remembers a three-year old Sammy grabbing his hand in fear as Dean dropped him off at his first day of preschool. He remembers an excited eight-year old who yanked at his hand exuberantly at the fair and asked him for cotton candy.

 

And he remembers the mute, broken fifteen-year old who wouldn’t speak anymore but looked at him with those goddamned puppy eyes, pleading with him to understand, holding his palm tightly as though terrified that he would disappear if he let go.

 

“Don’t fucking touch me, Sam,” he tells the now-seventeen-year old, who still seems to think that nothing has changed, that it’ll all go back to being okay.

 

 _Everything’s_ changed.

 

Dad's _gone_. Bill's _dead_. 

 

Sam’s an _addict_.

 

And Dean is, apparently, an abusive asshole, who just hurt the child he’s legally responsible for.

 

He’s such a fuck-up, it’s not even funny anymore.

 

Without another word, he yanks his arm back and then whirls around on one foot, grabbing his jacket and marching out the door, refusing to look back even once.

 

And Sam just stands there in his wake, tears prickling behind his eyelids and heart shattering, because he knows that look on Dean’s face, and he _knows_ that the stupid idiot is blaming himself for everything and that there is nothing he can do to convince him otherwise.

  
It’s a truth he’s lived with for his entire life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Thoughts -
> 
> This chapter has been one of my absolute favorite to write; it wrote itself, literally, I fell in to the screen, and the next thing I know, I have over 6k of plot - and the fluff, cuz my brain cannot not have fluff. And as an elder sibling with a younger brother, the last bit is so not meant to come off as abuse; my brother is still a minor and hair-pulling and punches is still very much a thing (I'm usually the one getting sat on though. :P) And if it feels like the plot is dragging, it's meant to be that way - I'm trying to explore what these characters might feel realistically, and reconciliation and peace-making with the past doesn't just happen easily. It'll be one step back for every two forward and that's what I'm going for. 
> 
> Thoughts? Suggestions? Ideas? Drop me a comment or come talk to me on  my Tumblr !
> 
> See you in two weeks!


	6. Halloween Night (Beginnings)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheriff Mills is called in to investigate a murder while Cas takes his girls Trick-or-Treating. Mostly fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS - Mentions/Recollections of torture, fighting, murder, dead bodies, mentions of drug addiction and rehabilitation, mentions of pedophiles
> 
> Merry Christmas and Happy New Year's everyone! I'm sorry that I missed my deadline this week; I'm traveling on vacation, with little access to the net, so this is a bit later than expected! But here, some fluff and plot movement to make up for it, enjoy!

**Chapter 5 - Halloween Night (Beginnings)**

 

Castiel skillfully pulls Emma’s long hair into a lovely fishtail braid, her costume very similar to that of _Tauriel_ , who is her unofficial idol and role model. When she claimed that she wanted to go as an, “Elf-lady like Tauwiewl!” after a three-day binge of the entire _Hobbit_ and _Lord of the Rings_ movie series, Castiel knew it was code for _I-want-be-her-but-not-really-her_. Even at three years old, Emma has a distinct personality of her own and while she likes to emulate others, she refuses to copy them without adding in her own element.

 

So today, Lady Tauriel of Middle-Earth becomes young Lady Emma’s tutor; Castiel’s lips are twisted in a bittersweet smile as he ties her braid together and pushes it over one shoulder, dropping a kiss on the side of her soft neck. Emma squeals at the feeling of his rough stubble pressing against her and then laughs, turning around on the bed to fall into his open arms, nuzzling her cheek against his.

 

“Da-ddy,” she protests as he pokes at her sides, tickling her. Her giggles are loud and delighted and stubby, freckled arms push against him in vain to free herself.

 

Her long, green tunic is form-fitting and it makes her look quite the lady – it makes his heart ache, even though his cheeks are hurting from smiling so wide. A long, long time ago, this was him and Anna; Tolkien’s Middle-Earth was often where they disappeared to when the drug business became too heavy or when they didn’t have Gabriel to soothe them into sleep. Had Anna still been alive, Castiel has no doubt that she would have loved the new character of Tauriel that was introduced particularly for the movies; the lady was, to describe her in Anna’s words, quite _badass_.

 

He’s not surprised that Anna’s daughter fell in love with such a character, but it does make him long for his sister. With a sigh, he drops another kiss on Emma’s cheek, before calling out for Claire.

 

“Claire? Are you dressed?”

 

The five-year old trots out of her room, fully suited up as Batman; of all characters, a superhero is not one he would have figured his little girl would want to be. But, a closer look at it made things a lot clearer; at just five and having been through trauma that’s taken her voice away, his daughter is looking for something she _can_ control, something makes her feel powerful. Batman, as a role model is quite similar – lost his parents as a child and takes on supervillains to regain that control. It’s not surprising that Claire wants to be a hero then; it just worries him, because Claire’s reasons for choosing to be a hero is so much more different than any normal five year old who just thinks superheroes are _‘awesome’_.

 

It’s a reminder of the clear way in which _he’s_ failed.

 

Ignoring that petty thought, he offers his eldest a bright smile and motions for her to join her sister on her bed. Claire’s shoulder shake with her silent giggles as she races on to him, for once uninhibited in her enthusiasm. She clambers up with all the grace of a typical five-year old. It warms his heart and the weight lifts, just a little bit, so that he can breathe a little easier.

 

 _I’m ready, daddy!_ her hands are excited and wobbly, but her eyes are glowing bright with anticipation as she turns to her sister, who claps her little hands happily.

 

“Claiwe!” Emma exclaims, “You a hewo!”

 

 _And I’ll save you, Em, whenever you need me!_ she reaches for the younger girl and tucks herself around her smaller form, holding out an arm in a show of strength. _See? I’m strong!_

 

Emma’s tongue sticks out of the corner of her mouth as she also pulls an arm and reaches out, trying to measure up to her big sister. “I stwong, too,” she cries, “I’ll swave you, Claiwe!”

 

Castiel turns away quickly, refusing to let the girls see the way his eyes are burning. Not only is this scene so reminiscent of Anna and Gabe, it almost seems like a foreshadowing of things to come – _how_ is he ever going to keep the girls safe from the threat of the knife that _constantly_ hangs over them? They’re so little right now, it’s easy to keep them close… when they grow up, when they go to school, to college… how is he supposed to do it, look after them on his own?

 

He never expected it to be this hard.

 

Becky barrels out of Claire’s room right then, shrieking loudly as she jumps into Emma’s doorway. Castiel quickly wipes at his eyes and looks up at her, backing away instinctively when she saunters in close, hips swaying in a seductive manner.

 

“Well, Mr. Newman?” she asks, trying to keep her voice sultry and low. Her hand darts out to touch his chest, resting just above his navel and he jumps back instantly, slapping her hand away and turning to his daughters.

 

“Could you just get Claire’s mask, Ms. Rosen?” he keeps his voice polite and formal and ignores the way she winces at her last name. She’s asked him again and again to call him Becky, but he’s not going to comply – the sooner she understands that he’s not interested, the better for all involved.

 

“Call me Becky, Mr. Newman,” she repeats and then hands over the mask to him. He takes it in his hand and bends over to set it carefully on his daughter’s face, making sure that it doesn’t hurt of chafe or obscure her vision. Her long, blonde hair is tied back in a kind of side-pony/bun that is beyond even him and with the mask on, she looks an avenging, feminine version of Batman.

 

Well, she did want to be a powerful superhero. And now she is.

 

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he turns to Emma, who claps her hands excitedly.

 

“Claiwe!” she giggles, “Claiwe, you Batma’!”

 

The elder girl doesn’t answer, but just tilts her head to the side in affirmation. The movement is something she clearly learned from him and his heart lifts in a ridiculously happy moment. He chuckles and picks up the toy bow and arrow set that go with Emma’s costume. Obviously, none of the items are sharp; they’re just right enough to look authentic while being utterly baby-friendly.

 

With a flourish, he goes down on one knee, as if serenading her. He ignores Becky’s wowed gasp of surprise and presents the bow and arrow set to the three-year old, who looks at him with a quizzical pout on her heart-shaped face.

 

“Here, milady,” he says gravely, “A token, from your most faithful follower.”

 

Emma laughs, not quite following, but nevertheless understanding the essence behind it. She grabs the bow and then leans in to place a quick, clumsy kiss on his cheek, looking at Claire for further assistance.

 

 _Say, thank you, good sir,_ Claire signs and Castiel has to hold back a sigh – they’ve been watching entirely too much TV.

 

“Thwank you, good swia,” Emma stumbles over the words and he can't help it. The chuckle escapes his throat and he gets up, gathering both of them into his arms at the same time, hugging them tight.

 

For a long moment, he clings to them, forgetting about Becky tittering around in the background, just savoring the feel of his girls in his arms. Then, with a quick kiss, he pulls back, picking up Emma’s bow and then fastening it carefully to her back. It’s not heavy and she’ll probably be able to carry it for an hour or two easily, but he’s still a bit worried as he hands over her pumpkin-candy bag to her. The quiver is small and has two inbuilt arrows attached to it and he’s quite impressed by the overall build of the item.

 

In contrast, Claire’s accessories are much smaller; she has a toy Batline gun and the utility belt that boasts of two batarangs. The real highlights are, of course, the cape and the cowl, and he has to admit, she does look quite dashing.

 

“Go on, girls,” he waves to them. “I’ll just get dressed and then we can get going, alright?”

 

He turns to Becky, whom he notices for the first time is dressed as a nurse; her costume is quite revealing, with the top cut quite low and the skirt a bit too short for his tastes. Still, he doesn’t say anything and gently keeps his distance as he nods towards the door.

 

“Would you see to them, Ms. Rosen?” he asks politely, “Keep an eye on them while I shift into my costume?”

 

“Oooh!” she exclaims, ignoring his request, “What are you going as, Mr. Newman? A hot bodyguard in just swim trunks? Or maybe… a _solid_ … fireman?” her hands are twitching excitedly and long practice of watching Claire’s hands to read emotions tells him now that she would rather be touching him instead of wringing her purse.

 

“That isn’t exactly appropriate,” he nods at the girls, chattering away as they jump off the bed, Claire holding Emma’s hand tightly. Becky hears the warning in his tone and backs off, leading the two of them downstairs to wait for him.

 

His own costume this year is very simple – he’s an angel. It was Claire who picked it out for him, as she always does; last year, he went as a Power Ranger (the pink one) and two years before, Anna, pregnant and snickering, had no qualms about slapping on a pair of bee’s antennae on his head as per the then-three year old’s request.

 

Claire picked out the costume, but Emma decided the finer details. She protested at first, saying that Castiel was a _man_ and that angels were _girls_ , but when Claire insisted and Castiel gently told her that he was named after an angel, she decided that, “Da-ddy no’ wea’ gown – he’s man! He wea’ white wings, but in-in…in nowmal clwothes!”

 

So he just pulls on the formal suit he usually wears to school – slacks, a dress-shirt and his trench-coat. On top of that, however, he adds the store-bought, fluffy angel-wings that he’s sure makes him look rather stupid. With a sigh, he sticks the Velcro on to himself, looking at the mirror _. It isn’t that bad_ , he supposes, though he absolutely refuses to wear the halo that came along with the wings.

 

All dressed up, he grabs his phone and his keys off the dresser and then runs down the stairs to see both Emma and Claire waiting impatiently by the door, clutching at their pumpkin-candy bags tightly.

 

“Da- _ddy_!” Emma calls impatiently when she hears his footsteps nearing, “Les’ go!”

 

Then, she looks up at him and her smile grows impossibly wider. Claire grins, jumping up on him and he catches her, settling her on his hip as he raises an eyebrow at his youngest.

 

“See, Em?” he tells her, “Angels have no gender. Daddy is an angel too.”

 

She nods, clapping her hands and giggling. “Da-ddy _pee_ -tty!” she raises her arms, indicating that she wants to be lifted up too and he obeys, settling her on his other hip and holding back a wince as she pulls at those wings, yanking at the Velcro hidden beneath.

 

“Why, thank you, Emma,” he mutters, nuzzling her cheek with his nose and she lets out a breathless, little girl laugh.

 

 _‘s soft,_ Claire signs, running gentle fingers over the fake feathers and he nods, dropping a kiss on her forehead.

 

“Yay!” Emma cheers and then wiggles. He puts her down and she turns to him impatiently. “Can’y!” she gestures towards the door in a show of impatience, stomping her tiny feet. With a laugh, he catches her little hand in his own and then takes Claire’s arm in his as well, leading them both out the door. Becky follows behind them, her eyes raking across Castiel’s full form and biting her lip. He ignores her, turning back to lock the house, before taking their hands again.

 

“Where to first?” he asks and Emma points, dragging them down the gravel path and then out of the gate, into the streets of Sioux Falls for their first ever Halloween in the town.

 

It will, if nothing else, be a night to remember.

*-*-*

 

_What is it about Halloween that brings out all the crazies?_

 

Sheriff Jody Mills sighs as she ponders that question, reclining back against her chair. Across her, her Deputy is trying to cuff a man in a golden-colored, string bikini who sports a black eye. He pushes Garth back, kicking at his nuts and her lanky deputy howls in pain, grabbing at his crotch. The man in the bikini – _what kind of name is friggin’ Cupid anyway?_  – seizes the chance and then runs, trying to race out of her station after she went to all that trouble to bring him in in the first place.

 

Jody just sighs as she rolls her eyes and throws her leg out; the man is idiotic enough that he doesn’t realize he’ll be running right _past_ her. With a loud yelp, he throws his arms up as he trips on her foot, falling flat on his face. The loud _thud_ as his fat body connects with the cold station floor resounds through the entire room, and she has to admit – she’s never quite heard anything sweeter.

 

_Fucking pedophile, trying to cop a feel of kids on Halloween._

 

“You okay there, Garth?” she calls as she yanks the man up by his arm. He whimpers a little, crying loudly as she twists his hand behind his back, marching him to the holding cell, where she tosses his fugly ass in without so much as an apology for flattening his face.

 

“Bitch!” he cries and she just whirls around on one heeled foot, ignoring the asshole and turning to her deputy instead, who’s still clutching at his crotch and moaning in pain.

 

“I’m-I’m fine, boss,” Garth gasps, letting go of his crotch to give her two thumbs-up. She chuckles, bumping shoulders with him affection as she passes him on her way back to her desk.

 

God, she hates working nights like these, especially when she should be out with Owen and Donna and enjoying their time off. Halloween is for kids, and she’s missing her boy with a fierceness that makes her chest ache. Sighing, she pulls out her phone and texts her wife, who, fortunately, has the evening off so she can take their son trick-or-treating.

 

_How’s it going, babe?_

 

_We may need to make food out of candy for the next three weeks, but Owen’s certainly enjoying himself._

 

Jody chuckles, her heart warming as she sends her a quick picture of the kid posing in front of a house, arms full of candy, Robin-mask askew. Toggling her settings, she sets it as her background image, wishing she could be with them.

 

A moment later, she’s distracted from her family by the shrill ringing of the phone. Garth is still grunting in pain as he sits as his desk gingerly, so she waves him off, going to pick up the damn thing herself. It’s probably just another crank call or some crazy-ass bastard like Cupid anyway; Halloween brings out the crazies.

 

“Sheriff’s station,” she answers curtly. “How may we help you? And _believe_ me, if this is a prank call, I’m throwin’ your ass in jail for the next twenty four hours.”

 

“Uh, I’m pretty certain the body I just found is not a prank, Sheriff,” the man’s accent is unerringly British and Jody freezes.

 

“Body?” she scowls as Garth jumps up at that. He winces, grabbing at his crotch again and she purses her lips, motioning him closer.

 

“Yes, body,” the man huffs. “And the bloody wanker is quite a disturbing sight, so I suggest you come over here quickly, please.”

 

“Address?” she grabs the notepad from her desk even as Garth scurries about, getting their equipment ready. If there _is_ a body – which she’s still not quite sure of – then, her Halloween is screwed to hell.

 

God, she hates her job sometimes.

 

The man rattles off the address and she writes it down quickly, sticking the phone between her ear and her shoulder.

 

“Thank you, Mr. uh-” she trails off, expecting an answer.

 

“Just a concerned citizen, Sheriff.”

 

And before she can ask for his name or any other contact details, the call is cut, abruptly. Jody scowls at the phone in her hand and slams it back down on the receiver – she _hates_ anonymous calls and tips of any kind. In her experience, any bastard who doesn’t want credit for helping the cops out either has something to hide or is part of something and her gut is telling her that this…? _This_ is something big.

 

So she calls for Garth, who’s already gotten everything ready and they head out, siren blaring, straight to the address the Englishman gave them.

 

The asshat was right – the body is a disturbing sight indeed. Worse… she knows the man.

 

_Gordon fucking Walker._

 

He’s lying dead in the alleyway in a growing pool of his own blood, throat neatly slit. Next to them, lies a gleaming, silver knife, the blade of which stained a bright crimson color – clearly the murder weapon. A quick glance at the body tells Jody that the man was in a knife-fight; there are lacerations and bruising on his arms that indicate an altercation, though she knows she’ll have to wait for the ME to confirm her suspicions.

 

It’s not her first body in this town, but Jody feels like throwing up. She wanted this bastard taken down, brought to justice – but not like this. He’s been dealing to the kids in the alleyways and the streets and she wanted to put him away. She wanted him to suffer, day after day, rotting away in prison, not get an easy way out with a quick death. It’s vindictive and angry, but after what he did to the kids of this town – to _Sam_ – it’s nothing less than what he deserved.

 

Thing is, now she doesn’t know who his supplier is. Gordon was just the friggin’ dealer – she knows he was working for someone big, loaded enough to drop a lawyer on him so that he wiggled his way out of her grip the last time she brought him in. Now, with this SOB dead, she has no idea who the big-kahuna is and her case is screwed seven ways to hell.

 

Next to her Garth whistles, dropping his bag and pulling out his phone to call the few reinforcements they have to back them up. Sioux Falls in a small town and the Sheriff’s is a small unit, with not even a proper CSU team. But they make do, and right now, Jody’ll take all the manpower she can get, especially since it’s Hallow-fucking-ween and most of her guys are out with their families.

 

“Someone did this guy a solid,” Garth comments and Jody nods, bending down to pick up the murder weapon with her gloves in hand.

 

“Murdered on Halloween,” she mutters, “Poetic.”

 

With a sigh, the Sheriff and her Deputy get into work.

 

*-*-*

 

From the distance, Balthazar watches as the pretty Sheriff and her deputy bag up the body of Gordon Walker and begin the long-winded process of studying the crime scene. His arm bloody hurts; goddamned twat managed to land a solid blow on his bicep before Balthazar was able to turn his own knife on him. The wound is dripping red down the length of his arm and he sighs, wrapping a hand around it to stem the bleeding, grunting quietly in pain as it begins to burn. Awkwardly, he fumbles for his phone, yanking it out of his pant pocket and sliding across the screen to open the lock.

 

“Bollocks,” he curses as a drop of blood splashes on to the screen, forming an ominous, circular shape over the picture of himself in Hawaii that he’s set as his background. Hastily, he thumbs across the screen, trying to remove the crimson dot and then with a sigh, quickly dials his cousin, muttering under his breath.

 

“I knew you work fast, cuz, but that was _fast_!” Gabriel’s voice is entirely too cheerful for Balthazar’s liking. “Did you miss me or something?”

 

“It’s bloody over,” he sighs, scowling at the sight of the Sheriff and her lanky Deputy climbing into their car. “And I need you to come and get me.”

 

“You alright there, bucko?” Gabriel may act like a child most of the time, but he isn’t stupid. “You sound iffy.”

 

“The sod pulled a knife on me, Gabe!” Balthazar snaps; his head is starting to pound and his entire body aches from the fight he was just in. Gordon Walker fell this night, but he did not go out without a protest.

 

“Where are you?” Gabe turns sharp and he breathes out in a rush of relief, staggering back against the wall. He rattles off the address, much in the same manner as he did just a few moments ago with to the Sheriff.

 

“I’ll be there in ten,” Gabe promises. “Hang in there, kiddo.”

 

The phone line disconnects and Balthazar glares at it.

 

“Where am I going to go, you stupid moron?” he huffs, resting his head against the cool bricks of the wall in front of him. Minutes pass, in which there is nothing but the silence and he sluggishly presses against the wound in his arm, stemming the blood-flow as best as he can. His head is spinning and all he wants is a warm bed and a cold –

 

“Baz?”

 

Gabe’s voice is worried and he blinks his eyes open – _when did the elder man get here?_ Squinting, he growls, reaching out an arm for his cousin. Gabriel grabs it, pulling him up and then wraps the arm around his shoulder, helping him walk.

 

“C’mon, kiddo,” he grunts, “Let’s get you back to the motel.”

 

Balthazar nods wearily, letting himself lean on his brother, closing his eyes and just doing as directed. His head is really beginning to pound now; bloody Walker nailed his arse _good_. Probably a concussion, he muses, resting his head against Gabriel’s smaller shoulder. He’s glad when they reach the car; every step is rather painful and he would prefer to just lie down.

 

He must have dozed off again, because the next thing he knows, Gabriel is tapping his cheek to wake him, a worried expression on his face.

 

“Baz? Wake up, c’mon,” he calls anxiously and Balthazar stumbles up, leaning on him again as the elder man escorts him through the lobby and into their room. The kid stares at them strangely and if he could care, Balthazar would be nervous about the scene they’re making. Staying unnoticed and under the radar isn’t easy when you’re lolling about like a drunk heathen.

 

Gabriel dumps him on the bed, fluttering about the room to pull out first aid supplies. The silence is ominous and Balthazar can't stand it; his head is pounding and all he wants is to sleep, but Gabriel needs to know.

 

“I-I,” he clears his throat, pressing the back of his hand to his burning eyes. “I killed him.”

 

“I figured,” Gabriel says quietly. “Did you want to?”

 

Balthazar’s head whips at him so quickly, Gabe almost worries that his neck might snap. The Englishman may be beaten up and bloody, but the glare he offers his cousin is still chilling and fierce.

 

“What kind of a question is that?” he growls, “Did I _want_ to? _No,_ I didn’t bloody want to! I had no choice!”

 

Gabriel meets his burning gaze, searching for something within his eyes. He must have found it, because he just nods firmly.

 

“Good,” he says and then goes back to fixing him a bandage, grabbing his hand and then perusing the wound with pursed lips.

 

“Good?” Balthazar echoes. “ _Good_ ? That’s _all_ you have to say?”

 

It isn’t easy, this… _what_ ever it is they are doing. He’s never been one for a conscience, never really cared about all the hundreds of children across the globe that have fallen prey to the drugs that he and his family have made and distributed over the years. It’s simple, in his mind – this is his lot in life, he may as well enjoy it while he could.

 

And then Anna ran away.

 

Gabe died.

 

Cassie and Claire both died.

 

Death and murder and consequences suddenly took on a whole new meaning, a whole new dimension that he never really understood before. In those weaker moments, those few seconds when he just wanted it all to be _over_ – Balthazar _understood_ . He understood that need to make that dark feeling in his chest just disappear, the need to just make it all go away by injecting himself with something,  _any_ thing that would take the memories away.

 

Gabe’s _alive._

 

 _Cassie and Claire_ are alive.

 

He has a new niece, Anna’s daughter, now Cassie’s daughter, _Emma_.

 

And Anna is _still_ dead.

 

He doesn’t know what to do.

 

“What do you _want_ me to say, Baz?” Gabriel sounds tired and run down in a manner that he’s never heard from the elder man before. In all his life, Gabriel has been the fun one, the prankster, the jolly old cousin who would steal your chocolate and place a fart-bag in your seat. That, perhaps, more than anything is what makes him so dangerous – nobody expects that this short twat could also be the best sharp-shooter they’ve ever seen.

 

“I dunno, Gabe,” he lashes out, suddenly angry, suddenly pissed off. “How about the bloody whole story?!”

 

His head is pounding, his arm is throbbing and his entire body is aching, but the tension is coiling beneath his skin, bubbling inside, vibrating with the need to get out.

 

Twelve years.

 

Twelve fucking _years_ , he’s mourned, losing them one-by-one and now…

 

“I can't tell you, Baz,” Gabriel says sharply. “I can't risk Lucifer or Michael-”

 

“It’s the same story, the same song over and over again, Gabriel!” he roars, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and jumping up. His vision spins and he stumbles, but when his cousin rushes forward to offer him a hand, he moves back, throwing up an arm in defense.

 

“No, I’ve bloody had it with you,” he growls. “Cassie and Claire and _Emma_ are alive. They’re alive, and I cannot see them. Anna’s dead… _dead_.”

 

Gabriel is watching him with something akin to compassion and the burning in Balthazar’s eyes worsens.

 

God, why does it hurt so much, even after all these years? Granted, he was never as close to them as they were to each other. He was the outsider, the one looking in on them, with Anna being Castiel’s protector and Gabriel their guardian angel. But out of everybody in the family… out of everyone in the whole _world_ , the three of them were the only ones who ever afforded Balthazar any kindness.

 

And then they died.

 

“Twelve years,” he sounds broken and shattered and he doesn’t find it in himself to bloody care. “Twelve years I mourned you… Anna ran away. _You_ died… _Cas_ died. And I just… I-”

 

“Baz,” Gabe sighs, kneeling in front of him. “I’m sorry.”

 

“A decade too late, Gabe,” he hisses, wiping his tears and just flopping back on to the bed.

 

“For what it’s worth, I didn’t mean to just leave,” Gabe tells him honestly. “I helped Anna get out, but… after everything, after _Kali_ …”

 

He falls silent and Balthazar wants to ask him, wants to know what happened after his Indian lover was killed, wants to know _everything_ , but…

 

He’s still too angry.

 

So he just sighs and bows his head in acquiescence. “Yeah,” he mutters.

 

They fall quiet for a moment, the silence echoing with all the things they used to be and all the memories they’re suppressing. Gabriel is the one who finally breaks it. 

 

“Cassie ran because he was trying to protect Claire,” he says. “He still doesn’t know anything.”

 

Balthazar nods, too tired to untangle the knot of emotion in his chest. Logically, he _understands_ – he understands why Castiel ran. He understands why Gabriel cannot tell him everything, why he’s still keeping secrets. He understands that his own feelings are inconsequential in the face of tearing down the roots of the biggest drug-dealer family in the country.

 

But logic, he’s discovered over the years, plays little part in emotion and family. Those are messy things.

 

Balthazar _hates_ messy things.

 

“You gonna lemme fix you up now?” Gabriel asks, somewhat amused, as the tension drains out of him as suddenly as it came.

 

“Do I have a choice?” he snorts and the elder man chuckles.

 

“Not unless you wanna bleed to death, bucko,” he answers, pulling out the suture kit. “And I’ve got _plans_ for you yet.”

 

“Oh, the raunchy kind?” he raises an eyebrow and smirks.

 

“Shut your gob, jackass,” his gentle pat of Balthazar’s shoulder belies his words and the Englishman lets himself relax, giving in to the care his cousin heaps upon him.

 

An hour later, he’s all stitched up and his head is a bit better. It still feels like someone is playing the bloody bongo in there, but he can stand without the room spinning now, so he counts that as a win.

 

“What happened with Gordon?” Gabriel finally asks, dumping a bottle of beer into his hand. Balthazar raises an eyebrow.

 

“Really? Beer? Now?” he asks and Gabriel shrugs, popping a lollipop into his mouth.

 

“Yo’ don’ haf’ a confcuss’on,” he chortles around it, and Balthazar rolls his eyes, accepting the drink and taking a long swig of it. The cold liquid soothes his throat and he sighs, relaxing against the bedstead and closing his eyes.

 

“So, Gordon Walker?’ Gabriel prompts.

 

“He wanted Cassie,” Balthazar answers, “Or rather… he wanted _Michael_ to know that he had Cassie.”

 

“Who was he working for?” Gabriel plops himself over his own bed, next to Balthazar and the taller man squints open one eye.

 

“I’m not too sure,” he replies, frowning. “He kept repeating that he’d found Cassie and he would turn him over to Michael – for a price, of course. I asked him to keep his mouth shut, he refused, pulled that knife on me and we brawled like a couple of drunk frat boys at a wild party before I offed him.”

 

“You _were_ a frat boy at a wild party,” Gabriel points out and Balthazar grins at the memory.

 

“Not anymore, Gabe,” he returns. Gabe’s grin spins into a frown as he turns the information over in his mind.

 

“If he recognized Cassie so quickly, then whoever he works for is well-connected,” Gabriel mutters. “I’ve been following the kid since he left the family. There’s no way anyone could’ve just recognized him on sight the way Walker did unless he’s seen him before.”

 

Balthazar sits up, the implications of that statement churning in his gut. “What, you think Walker’s been to the estate?” he asks.

 

“Or his boss has,” Gabriel shrugs, eyebrows creasing into that familiar scowl. “Cassie is very good at covering his own tracks and I’ve made sure that he and the girls are completely under the radar. Not to mention, the kid’s never been seen in public… the cops don’t even have records of his existence within the family. There’s no way someone uncovered us that easy.”

 

“I should’ve kept the wanker alive,” Balthazar grunts, “We could’ve interrogated him.”

 

Gabriel reaches out and squeezes his knee. “Nah, I’m glad you chose to save your own fugly ass instead,” he says, his eyes soft despite his jovial tone. “We don’t need that assclown to figure this out.”

 

Balthazar sighs, “Careful there, Gabe,” he smirks, “One might think you have heart, after all.”

 

Gabriel laughs, socking him gently in the arm and then jumps up, pulling out his phone and throwing it at Balthazar, who catches it.

 

“Call for room service,” he orders, “I want food. I’m gonna go call Deveraux and make sure that we’re still hidden.”

 

“Think the old crony bastard will help?” Balthazar asks, scrolling through the phone. Gabriel shrugs, waving his arm about.

 

“He will, for the dough I’m payin’ his fat ass,” he grumbles and the Englishman laughs.

 

*-*-*

They’re barely ten minutes into trick-or-treating when his phone rings. Castiel tries to pull the contraption out of his the back-pant pocket, but the wings hinder his movements and he grunts in frustration as he’s unable to reach it. It stops ringing after a moment and he heaves a sigh of relief.

 

A moment later, his ass starts vibrating a second time and he bites back a curse, trying to maneuver through the irritating feathers to get at it.

 

“Here, let _me_ ,” Becky’s voice is sultry and seductive as she slides in behind him, draping herself over his back. Castiel yelps in surprise, whirling around to trap her against the fence they’ve been standing by, waiting for Emma and Claire to emerge from the house where they are trick-or-treating.

 

Becky lets out a small shriek, eyes clenching shut as he instinctively cups at her throat in a long-forgotten move of both defense and murder. For a second, he’s back at the Novak training ground –

 

_Red was blue and silence was noise as he ducked to avoid the overhead kick that Uriel threw at his face. His childhood friend smirked at him as he swiped at Castiel’s legs instead, pulling him down and throwing his heavy form over his lean body –_

 

“Oh, I _like_ this,” Becky purrs and Castiel is yanked out of his memory instantly. She pushes herself against him, rubbing her breasts against his chest and he stumbles back, glaring at her.

 

“I do apologize, Ms. Rosen,” he says stiffly, “I don’t know what came over me.”

 

“That’s quite alright, Mr. Newman,” she answers breathlessly, stepping forward, “I understand what you wanted-”

 

The phone is still ringing and Castiel turns his back to her deliberately as he tries to reach for the damn thing, huffing when the feathers still block his movement. He’s about to just remove the entire silly costume when the teenager saddles in closer a second time, her hand hovering above the small of his back.

 

“Let me,” she whispers huskily, and he swallows hard, back going stiff as she reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone. She takes the time to rub her hand against his backside and he growls low in his throat and grits his teeth.

 

“Thank’u vewy mwuch!”

 

Emma’s loud, delighted cry alerts them to the girls’ return. Despite the flirting, Becky is conscientious enough to back away quickly then; she yanks his phone out of his pocket and steps back. Just in time too – Claire flies down the driveway and runs to him, hugging his legs in her excitement.

 

 _They gave us so much candy, Daddy!_ she signs, holding up the pumpkin-candy bag to show him, and despite the fact that his phone is still vibrating in his hand, he dutifully bends his head down to peruse the chocolate inside it. There are Snickers and Mars and M &Ms and he wonders with a slight sigh how long it’s going to take at the dentist’s this time.

 

Emma is close behind her sister and she’s laughing ecstatically as she holds out her own bag, hopping from foot to foot.

 

“Can’y, Da-ddy!” she cries and Castiel smiles, smoothing out her long hair before nodding towards Becky, who takes their hands in hers.

 

“I’m very happy that you are getting candy, girls,” he tells them solemnly; he peeks a glance at his phone which has finally stopped ringing – four missed calls. From _Missouri_.

 

Missouri never calls more than once. She is not fond of telephones and prefers to receive calls rather than make them.

 

His heart leaps to his throat and he swallows hard. Ignoring the slight flutter of panic in his chest, he turns to Becky, who’s still watching him with a predatory gleam in her eye.

 

“Why don’t you girls go on with Ms. Rosen?” he says quietly, squeezing Claire’s cape-covered shoulder. “I have a phone call to make and then I shall join you.”

 

Claire must sense that something is off, because she turns wide blue eyes to him. _Are you okay, Daddy?_ she frowns and he runs the back of his index finger down the length of her soft cheek.

 

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Just need to speak to somebody. Go on, both of you. I’ll join you shortly.”

 

He looks up to meet Becky’s sly gaze and glares at her. She looks away then, expression turning serious and with a sigh, offers him a nod, letting him know that the message has been received.

 

“Come on, girls!” she chirps, holding out her hands. The girls grab at her arms, but Emma turns to Castiel first.

 

“You cwome soon?” she questions with raised eyebrows. He ruffles her hair and nods seriously. “Ten to twenty minutes at the most, Em,” he promises. She bites her lower lip, considering it and then shrugs, nodding.

 

“Wokay,” she yells and then drags Becky further down the street. “Twick o’ tweat!”

 

Becky pulls Claire gently along with her and they run after an enthusiastic Emma who is barreling down the driveway of the next house. Castiel doesn’t stay back, of course – the threat of being discovered by his family hangs too fresh in his mind to let the girls out of his sight for even a single moment. He follows them sedately, instead, hanging back just far enough to be able to keep an eye on them while dialing Missouri back, heart hammering in his chest.

 

“Cas,” Missouri’s voice is exasperated. “Boy, why aren’t you answering your phone? You know how I hate these things.”

 

“My apologies, Missouri,” he says softly. “It’s Halloween. I’m..” he looks down at himself to see the wings have crumpled over his shoulders, a few feathers hanging limply around his neck, “…trick-or-treating.” He sighs as she chuckles.

 

“With the girls, I assume?” she asks and he can almost see the way her eyes would twinkle merrily if she were here. “What have they chosen to be this year?”

 

“Emma emulates Tauriel, from The Hobbit movies,” he leans back against a tree, watching as Becky leads the redhead to the big, white-colored house and rings the bell.

 

“And Claire?”

 

“Batman,” he responds, and Missouri sighs.

 

“Yes, I can see why she’d wanna go as a superhero,” she mutters. “Cas-”

 

“What’s _happening_ , Missouri?” he cuts her off, a little desperately. He doesn’t have time for this small talk, he can't worry about feathers and wings and superheros when his daughters are in grave danger.

 

She goes silent and he can hear her breathing come the line, an ominous sound that echoes within the loudness of the absolute quiet.

 

“Missouri?” he pleads.

 

“Keep watch tonight, Cas,” she tells him finally. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, only that something _is_.”

 

Castiel looks up, heart hammering in panic, Emma’s voice in the distance sounding so, _so_ far away.

 

“Twick o’ tweat!” she’s holding up her pumpkin-bag and Claire is right behind her, also holding up her bag and his vision blurs – he can't lose them, he _can't_ –

 

“Cas,” Missouri says firmly. “Get a hold of yourself, boy. I can feel your panic from here.”

 

“They-they’re in danger, Missouri,” he stumbles back, clutching at the trunk of the tree he’s leaning on for support. The wood seems strangely cold and wet against his back, and distantly, he wonders if he’s ruined Emma’s chosen costume for him, he’s ruined _everything_ , he’s messed _up_ –

 

“Not yet, Cas,” she mutters. “I… I don’t sense _danger_ , at least not tonight.”

 

He blinks, “What?”

 

“Something big is going to happen tonight, Cas,” she tells him softly, “But big doesn’t necessarily mean bad.”

 

“I can't lose them,” he tells her, voice breaking, “I-I just…I cannot…”

 

“Change is coming for you, Cas,” she murmurs, “Big change. But I promise you boy, you’re going to gain a lot more than you’ll lose.”

 

“So I _am_ going to lose something?” he asks quietly. She falls silent again and he sighs, closing his eyes in defeat.

 

“This…this was supposed to be _safe_ ,” he whispers. “ _I_ am supposed to keep them safe.”

 

“And you will,” she tells him firmly. “Tonight… I have faith, Cas, that it’ll all work out.”

 

“How can you be so certain?”

 

“Because I know you, boy. And I know your girls.”

 

Emma and Claire are returning from that house, Becky already pointing out their next location. Castiel watches them in despair, stomach bubbling with anxiety, chest entirely too tight, and he rubs his eyes tiredly.

 

“Go on, boy,” Missouri says quietly. He looks up at the sky, aimlessly staring at the stars that are so much clearer here than it ever was in the big city.

 

“Go and look after ‘em. Kiss Claire and ruffle Emma’s hair for me, will you?” Missouri sighs and Castiel breathes in deeply, letting his tension drain away with the crisp, cold air.

 

“Yes,” he replies. “You… you’ll keep an eye on things there…?”

 

“It’s why I didn’t come with you, Cas,” she tells him warmly. “When the time is right, I’ll join you. But for now… I’ll keep watch here.”

 

“Thank you,” his voice is shaking, he knows, but he can't find it in himself to care. Leaving Chicago was not without its risks; having Missouri keep an eye on his old home means that he will know the instant someone from the Novak family comes around in search of him there. The old woman doesn’t know exactly what she’s looking out for, or even why they’re in danger. But it hardly matters to her. That they _are_ in danger is enough reason for her to offer a hand and Castiel has never been more grateful than he is now.

 

“Go on, now,” she hangs up without goodbye and he chuckles, tucking his phone into his pocket – the _front_ one this time.

 

“Claire?!” Becky’s voice is loud and panicked and Castiel surges up at the sound of it.

 

“Claire! _Emma!”_

 

His blood runs cold as he sees his babysitter standing outside a house, pumpkin bags in hand and his daughters nowhere in sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER THOUGHTS -
> 
> This was supposed to be a chapter of pure fluff with the girls at Halloween, but plot decided to come forward and demanded to be written, so the fluff got postponed to the next one. Well, it's more fluffy angst (or angsty fluff?) really, but it's been my favorite scene to work on so far, so I can't wait to share it with y'all! Things are getting nasty now, more flashbacks to come with more action! 
> 
> Happy Holidays everyone, and I'll see you next year! 
> 
>  
> 
> [ My Tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dusky-gold)


	7. Halloween Night (Endings)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean officially meets Claire and her family, but it isn't exactly a Hallmark moment. Angsty fluff, Tissue Warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS - Bullying, mentions of abuse, drug addiction and rehab, recollection of trauma and flashback, selective mutism
> 
> Happy New Year's everyone! As always, to my beta and my cheerleaders - yay, bitches! Special thanks to my friend across the ocean in London who offered me her special glares to get my ass in gear while I procrastinated on gay smut for another fic; shoutout to my new bitch from back home who's been exchanging fic ideas with me for the past few weeks and is one of the best cheerleaders I've ever had! 
> 
> Enjoy the fluff!

**Chapter 6 - Halloween Night (Endings)**

 

_"Can the baby hear me, Mom?”_

 

_Dean was perched on the couch, next to a heavily pregnant Mary, who just offered her eldest a warm smile and leaned in to ruffle his hair. He shrunk back, at four years old and already shying away from touch and trying to be ‘cool’. Mary mock-glared at him, pursing her lips to hide her smile and then pounced on him, dragging him close and hugging him tight as he squealed in protest._

 

_“Mo-Mom!” he cried breathlessly and she just laughed, rubbing her tummy gently. The baby seemed happy too, kicking away at her enthusiastically._

 

_“Yes, he or she can hear you, Dean,” she answered, “In fact, I think they’re listening very hard to you right now.”_

 

 _Green eyes went wide in curiosity and Dean rubs at his ‘I wuv hugs’ shirt, a look of utter wonder on his face. "_ _Really?” he asked, voice dropping to an excited whisper. Mary nodded, grabbing his face and drawing him in close, resting her forehead on his._

 

 _“You wanna know how I know?” she asked, eyes twinkling merrily and Dean nodded instantly._ _“Give me your hand,” she ordered and he raised a small fist, little fingers bunched up in excitement. She took the smaller palm in hers and pressed a kiss to the middle of it, giggling lightly at Dean’s token protest. Without another word, she placed his hand on her swollen belly, where the baby, seemingly sensing its elder brother, kicked even more harshly. She held back a wince, watching Dean instead._

 

_“Is-is that…?” his voice was filled with amazement and Mary nodded, wrapping an arm around him as he snuggled in next to her, stroking her belly softly._

 

_“That’s your baby brother or sister, Dean,” she murmured. “And apparently, they like you very much. Little imp kicks me hard whenever he hears your voice.”_

 

 _“Really?” Dean bounced on the couch next to her in delight and Mary laughed loudly._ _“Really,” she confirmed. Dean frowned._

 

_“Mom?”_

 

_“Hmmmm…??”_

 

_“How do you know it’s going to be a boy? You called him a ‘he’?”_

 

 _Mary sighed happily, dropping a kiss on his forehead. “I don’t, actually,” she told him, “But I just have a feeling, kiddo…”_ _She tilted her head to look down at him; he was still watching her stomach, fascinated as the baby moved against his hand._ _“What would_ **_you_ ** _like, Dean?” she questioned softly. “A baby brother or a baby sister?”_

 

_Dean wrinkled his nose. “No sister,” he declared, “Girls have cooties.”_

 

_The childish surety with which he made his grand statement had her wheezing with laughter._

 

 _“Oh really?” she teased, “_ **_I’m_ ** _a girl. Do I have cooties too, kid?”_ _She poked at his sides and he shrieked with laughter, head flopping to the sides._

 

_“Mo-Mom, no!” he protested breathlessly, “Mom, yo-you don’t… you’re aweso-stop! Mom!”_

 

 _“_ I’ll _give you cooties, kid,” she cried and then nuzzled her nose with his affectionately, kissing the corner of his mouth. He laughed, wrapping skinny arms around her._

 

_“I guess I don’t mind a sister, then,” he told her seriously when they moved apart. “As long as she’s like you.”_

 

 _Mary just grinned at him, ruffling his hair._ _“Girl or boy, they’re lucky to have you as a big brother, kiddo,” she said affectionately. “You’re going to have so much fun together!”_

 

 _Dean rested his head against her tummy and she stroked a hand against his small nape._ _“I’ll take care of you, baby,” he murmured against her skin and Mary sniffled, wiping away the sudden burning in her eyes. The boy looked up at her and offered her a warm smile._ _“I’ll look out for them, Mom,” he promised, expression determined, and she nodded, kissing his forehead._

 

_“I know you will, sweetheart,” she whispered. “I know you will.”_

 

But he hasn’t.

 

Dean _knows_ he hasn’t – he’s failed Dad, he’s failed _Mom_. He promised – he fucking swore – that he would protect Sammy, even before he knew Sammy was going to _be_ Sammy. And now, he’s just pummeled him into the ground, without a thought, without remorse.

 

He’s the worst kind of monster there is.

 

A acrid, angry laugh bubbles in his throat and he swallows the bitter bile that follows, stomping out of the house and onto the street. The October air is colder than a witch’s tit, offering no solace, and right now, it’s exactly what he needs.

 

He has to _go_ , has to get away from Sam before he hurts his brother even worse. He’s fucked up, ruined everything and Jesus _Christ_ , Mom was wrong, she was _so_ fucking wrong –

 

How could he have been so damned stupid?

 

He hit Sam.

 

He _hit_ Sam – hurt him.

 

He _wanted_ to hurt him.

 

He wanted Sam to feel the pain that he’s feeling, wanted him to just friggin’ understand, wanted him to just, for once in his bloody life, just _listen_.

 

God, he’s such a screw-up. No wonder Dad just walked out, just vanished on them. No wonder Sam chose to snort fucking cocaine and shoot friggin' heroin instead of trying to reach out to him. No wonder people keep leaving – nobody would _choose_ to stay with Dean, not after they’ve borne witness to what a monumental bastard he is. His chest hurts, his wounds are burning and the tears are prickling the back of his eyes, but he ignores them all, just racing down the road, not quite running and not quite walking. He has to go, he has to get _away_ , but he doesn’t know where, doesn’t want to leave, because it’s _Sam_ , it’s _Sammy_ and he still –

 

He wants to throw himself at his brother’s feet and beg his forgiveness.

 

He wants to call up Dad and plead with him to come home and he wants Mom to not be dead.

 

He wants Sam to apologize, to accept that Dean’s tried, that’s really, fucking _really,_  tried.

 

He wants too much and too little and he physically aches with the longing he’s buried deep inside of him.

 

The small cry pulls him out of his self-loathing and he turns to see that he’s somehow made it three streets away from home. He’s standing in front of a big house with a white picket fence, and in front of it, a bunch of kids are huddled around, all dressed in strange-ass costumes.

 

He blinks – that’s right, it’s Halloween.

 

Damn, he forgot. _Again_. He remembers that he forgot to stock up on candy too and a fresh wave of self-loathing hits. He’s so far gone that he and Sam can't even hand out candy to the innocent rugrats who are no doubt ringing their bell even as of now. And he’s left Sam to clean up his mess.

 

Can he be any _more_ pathetic?

 

The soft whimper reaches his ears again and he frowns, trying to discern the source. Behind his eyes, he can see Sam’s face – _god_ , the expression in his eyes fucking hurts. Ignoring the way his throat tightens with emotion, he just walks closer to the group of kids huddled together and he sees that most of them are boys, hissing and jeering at something in the middle.

 

Intuition tells him that something’s wrong – the third small, broken cry just confirms his suspicions. Dean lengthens his stride, pacing towards to the group, dimly noting the abundance of small superheroes and zombies in the crowd. Overall, there are about seven kids, all of them booing at whatever is in the middle and as he nears them, he sees that it’s another kid, curled into a ball inside the circle.

 

The tiny Batman is shivering, golden hair half-flying out of the bun she’s wearing and Dean’s heart aches for the little girl as she whimpers. One of the boys – a Spiderman – throws candy wrappers at her, hissing loudly.

 

“Batman can't be a _girl_ , loser,” he taunts, the venom sounding strange in his small kid voice.

 

“Yeah, you dumb-dumb,” another kid – a firefighter this time – sneers, “Girls can't be superheroes.”

 

“You should stick to pink fairies and princess tea-parties,” a third boy jeers, popping a lollipop into his mouth and reaching out to pull that golden hair, sticking the wrapper in it. A small sob escapes her lips and she tries to push him away, only to get pushed back instead. They’re all older than her – older and _bigger_.

 

“Hey, leave her alone!”

 

Dean recognizes that voice. He’s startled to realize that Owen’s standing just behind the girl – the Robin he mistook for being part of the bully-crowd is actually defending her. The seven year-old catches her small frame as she stumbles back, wrapping skinny arms around her shoulders and glaring at her tormentors.

 

But it doesn’t work – when he touches her, she _shrieks,_  shaking hard. The tiny whimpers that caught his attention turn into loud sobs, her hands waving about in front of her, trembling and shaking.

 

“Ooooh, look!” Spidey-kid snarls. “Robin’s come to defend his _girl_ friend.”

 

“Eeeww,” a zombie snorts, “What a pathetic Batman she makes.”

 

“Superheroes don’t _cry_ , you little nerd-bomber,” firefighter kid yanks at her hair and she just blindly scrambles back, bumping into Owen and then curling in on herself. Her mask finally falls away, and Dean’s breath catches in his throat.

 

It’s the _kid_ from this _morning_ – the elder girl who so carefully pushed her baby sister on the swings, making sure she didn’t hurt herself… the same kid who reminded him what it means to be an elder brother.

 

“You leave her alone, you dumbasses!” Owen pushes the first kid on his back, hovering protectively over her small form. In a distant corner of his mind, Dean finds himself amused – Jody and Donna have _got_ to stop swearing around the kid; clearly, he’s picking shit up from his Moms, whom he worships.

 

His attention is drawn to the crying kid on the ground – her hands are moving in a strange manner, fingers tangling and untangling. The movements are familiar; they prick at Dean’s mind as he fastens his steps, in a rush to get to them and fucking stop this goddamned nonsense.

 

_Da-da…no…_

 

Her hands are shaky, wobbly, but Dean freezes. It hits him hard.

 

She doesn’t speak.

 

She has her voice – she’s crying, whimpering, moaning – but she doesn’t _speak_.

 

_Daddy… please, please… Daddy…go away…_

 

His heart damn near cracks.

 

_“Sam?”_

 

_No answer. Sam just stared at him vacantly, hazel eyes gazing at something beyond his big brother who knelt in front of him._

 

_“Sammy?” Dean tried again, voice breaking. “Sammy, hey, it’s me. It’s Dean… talk to me, buddy. Say…say something.”_

 

_Still no response._

 

 _“Sam,” he was begging –_ **_begging_ ** _– but the kid's mouth was pursed shut, expression empty._ _“Say something, dammit,” Dean cried, “_ Anything _, Sam, anything… just… say_ some _thing. Please.”_

 

_He rested his forehead on knobby knees, scraped and bruised and ran a gentle hand over the torn skin, the tears dripping hot on to it._

 

 _The sensation seemed to break something within his brother; Sam shuddered, looking down at Dean finally, eyes wet with unshed tears._ _He opened his mouth – and Dean’s heart leapt – but his expression turned panicky. He shook his head frantically, pushing Dean away, hands flying up to claw at his own face as he slapped his mouth. He bit his lips so hard that Dean could see the single drop of blood drip down his chin, but still, he didn’t speak._

_He wouldn't speak._

 

_“Sammy?” Dean whispered. Sam curled in on himself, rocking back and forth, wrapping lanky arms around tattered knees, frame shaking with quiet sobs. But there was no sound, not a whimper, not a cry._

 

_“Sam, no,” Dean’s voice was desperate and he leaned in to wrap his arms around his brother, dragging him close. The teenager resisted for all of ten seconds before he buried his face into Dean’s shirt, shuddering against his bigger form, hanging on to him for dear life._

 

 _Pulling back, Dean framed his face with rough hands and forced him to meet his gaze. The vacant eyes were now filled with panic and pain and fear. Dean shook his head when Sam opened his mouth to speak and nothing came out, no voice, no sound. Only_ silence _._

 

_“It’s okay, Sam,” he murmured, tears of his own pricking his eyes, “It’s ok. We’ll fix it, I promise. We’ll fix it.”_

 

Dean’s running before he knows it – he’s back _there_ again, in that tiny hospital room where Dad signed over the papers, where Sam’s voice _died_. For damn near two years, Sam didn’t speak – _couldn’t_ speak – from the guilt and the anger and the pain that reared their fugly heads whenever he opened his mouth. And no matter how many times Dean tried to tell him that it wasn’t his fault – _Bill’s_ death wasn’t his fault – Sam couldn’t believe it, _wouldn’t_ accept it.

 

His voice took away Jo’s Daddy. Why would he want to use it again after that?

 

Anger and resentment against a universe that puts children – innocent fucking _kids_ – through such shit pounds through Dean’s veins. This girl, _Sam_ – they lost their voice… because _he_ , Dean, wasn’t fast around to protect him, wasn’t there to stop him from picking up the damn phone and calling Dad, who was dumb enough to drive drunk and then fucking crash into a tree.

 

Dean’s already failed Sam.

 

He won’t fail this little girl too.

 

He skids to a stop in front of the circle of kids, who pay him no attention. Owen’s glaring at them, saying something, but all Dean can hear is the roaring in his ears and the small whimpers that cut past everything else.

 

“Stop that,” he hisses and the boys, startled that an adult is among them, turn around with wide eyes.

 

“Shit,” the firefighter-kid swears and Dean has to smirk.

 

“This what your parents taught you?” he asks through gritted teeth. Owen looks up with a grin; Dean offers him a nod, acknowledging the Sheriff’s son.

 

“Dean!” the boy cries, pushing through the circle of now-scared boys to get to him. Dean ruffles his hair and then looks up, eyes narrowing at the way they shuffle nervously.

 

“She-she’s… she’s a _wimp_!” the Spidey-kid has guts but Dean snorts, glaring at him.

 

“Yeah, _Batman_ can't be a wimp!” the firefighter bravely backs him up.

 

“Why?” Dean grunts, “Because she’s a girl?”

 

“Girls can't be superheroes!” he protests. Dean bends down and picks him, holding him high in the air – the kid, clearly afraid of heights, shrieks loudly.

 

“NO!” he thrashes against him, but the bartender's grip remains firm. “Lemme go!”

 

“Who’s’ the wimp now, kid?” Dean smirks, “Do you know how many times Batman’s had his ass handed to him by Catwoman?”

 

He dumps the kid down on the ground, where he scrambles up, shivering. Dean marches into the now-broken circle and stands between the boys and the still-crying girl.

 

“Princesses or superheroes, there’s no difference, you hear me, you punks?” he meets each of their scared-gazes with hard eyes, poking at the kid he threw in the air until he pushes away.

 

“Yeah, my Moms went as Princess Leia and Lieutenant Uhura last year and they're  _badass_!” Owen chirps, hanging on to Dean’s hand and glaring at them himself. The green-eyed man feels the urge to laugh but swallows – clearly, Owen has been spending far too much time around Jody at work.

 

“Now scram!” Dean brings his foot down on the gravel path hard, shoes making a loud _thud_ as they connect with the ground. The boys run off, terrified, leaving Owen and Dean behind with the girl.

 

“Good goin’, squirt,” Dean murmurs and Owen’s eyes narrow in protest.

 

“’M not a squirt,” he grumbles as they turn towards the younger girl. She’s curled into a ball, rocking back and forth, small shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. Her hands are still making random shapes in the air, trembling and shaking so hard, Dean’s surprised she’s able to move them at all.

 

Owen rushes to her, but he grabs the kid’s green cape and stops him. The boy looks at him with a confused expression on his face and Dean just shakes his head, gesturing for him to wait. “Lemme take this one, kid,” he says softly. Owen nods, stepping back.

 

“You know her?” Dean asks as he moves closer to the crying girl. Her mask is askew and her long blonde hair has long since fallen out of the bun and is streaming in the cold-night wind.

 

“Yeah, her name’s Claire,” Owen answers just as softly. “She started at my school’s kindergarten about three months ago. I think they just moved here.”

 

Dean can see the red lollipop-wrapper the bully stuck in her hair gleam in the soft moonlight and it wrenches something within him. Motioning Owen back, he goes down on one knee, making sure to stay a foot back, giving her to room he knows she needs.

 

“Hey there,” he murmurs softly. “You doin’ ok, kid?”

 

He doesn’t touch her – from what he saw, she _clearly_ doesn’t want to be touched. Whatever happened to make her this way, whatever trauma took her voice… it left her afraid and terrified of touch. He’s seen that look before – the utter, sheer horror and the panic and the anger… god, _Sam_ …

 

Swallowing hard and pushing the memories away, he just leans in, offering his presence, but making sure to keep a slight distance. She’s still shaking and crying, but the mewling whimpers are coming down and he sees her tilt her head inside the cradle of her arms.

 

“Ignore those jerks,” he mutters. “Girls are badass, trust me. I have a little sister who can bring you to your knees in seconds. Jo loves pink and Disney princesses, but she can fight evil like nobody’s business.”

 

Okay, that’s a tiny lie – Jo _hates_ pink. She _does_ love Disney princess movies though, as does Sam, and Dean’s been questioning if he has really two sisters instead of one. _And_ the eighteen year-old blonde won’t think about kneeing an assclown in the nuts if he’s being an asshole – he’s been hit enough times to know that the girl can _kick._

 

Ever so slowly, her grip on her knees unclenches and the Batman cowl falls off her face the golden head raises the tiniest fraction. Dean can't see anything beyond a sweat-matted, pale forehead, but she’s _responding_ and it’s enough for him to continue.

 

“And you know what? Guys and girls can wear anything they want,” he says, “My little brother’s hair is long enough to braid by now, but the moose-girl refuses to cut it. He thinks it makes him look like an Adonis.”

 

Terrified, teary sky-blue eyes peer out at him from behind her arms and bolstered, Dean leans forward, as though sharing a secret. “And don’t tell him I told you this,” he whispers, “But between you and me, he wouldn’t be half as popular as he is without those long, Rapunzel locks.”

 

Oh _man,_  he’s going to have to bribe Owen to keep his little mouth shut or Sam’s never going to let him hear the end of this.

 

But the girl – Claire – has stopped shaking so hard and is now staring at him with a heartbroken expression on her face.

 

“There you are,” he gives a small, shaky smile. Behind his eyes, he can Sam stare back at him, hazel gaze utterly vacant and unseeing. But Claire’s face is far more expressive, far more innocent than his brother was. She opens her mouth and the panic comes out as a choked, harsh little whimper and he’s suddenly moving forward, cupping her face in his hands and rubbing away the tears.

 

She pushes away, trembling hands forming half-tattered shapes.

 

_Dad-daddy… please… I-I… daddy… want… want daddy…_

 

She opens her mouth and only the sound of an angry sob comes out; her lips move in and out, but she can’t speak, terror clogging her throat. Dean’s close enough that he can see the way she swallows hard and it makes his chest tighten with emotion.

 

Whatever’s happened to this kid, it _broke_ something within her.

 

But Dean’s seen enough bullshit to know that broken _doesn’t_ mean useless. It doesn’t mean that you can't pick up the pieces and glue them back together. It hurts, it’s fucked _up_ and you’ll _never_ be the same again, but you will be _something_. Right now, he’s seized with a sudden, burning need to tell her that, to tell her that wherever her dumbass Dad is (the stupid son of a bitch must have lost her and that does _not_ endear him to Dean at all), he’s going to come to her and help her through this.

 

So he just reaches out gently and captures the tiny wrist in a firm but warm grip. Her pulse is a jackhammer against his fingers and he shakes his head slowly when she freezes.

 

“It’s alright, Claire,” he tells her quietly. “It’s alright.”

 

He drops her hand and it falls vacantly to her side as she stares at him with wide, pained eyes.

 

Her expression turns from frightened to disbelief when he raises his own hands and begins to form shapes, the signs half-forgotten as calls them up from the distant corner of his mind that he buried them in when Sam finally began to speak again.

 

_It’s okay, kid._

 

He’s rusty and his movements are shaky as fuck, but Claire doesn’t seem to mind. The wonder turns into heartbroken relief as another small, mewling sob escapes her lips.

 

_I’ll help…I’ll help you find your Daddy, ok? Don’t… don’t be afraid._

 

Without another word, she throws herself at him, her small body quivering from panic and fear and sheer relief of someone finally, _finally_ understanding her. Dean gets it – he’s _seen_ it before, the same expression of bittersweet relief and anger when he taught Sam how to _speak_ again, with or without his voice.

 

So he just wraps his arms around her trembling form, drawing her in close and rubbing her back, letting her hot tears warm the skin of his neck. Behind him, he hears Owen gasp sharply, watching them quietly as Dean looks up over Claire’s head.

 

 _Get your Mom,_ he mouths at the kid, who nods and runs off into the street. Their house is just the next street over, and even if Jody’s not at home, Donna surely will be. She’ll call her wife and they can find the girl’s father together.

 

“You don’t need to be so afraid, kid,” he whispers into her ear. Skinny arms, soft but quaking, wrap tightly around his nape as she clings on for dear life, and for a second, Dean’s back in that hospital again, Sam holding on to him like he was the only thing keeping him up.

 

He sifts his hand through her long hair, stopping when the candy-wrapper catches against his fingers. Taking it off will hurt he knows – the candy must have been sticky enough that the wrapper hasn’t fallen off her hair, which has been styled silky smooth to keep it in the bun. He doesn’t yank it out; instead, he pulls back the slightest bit, framing the heart-shaped face in his hands, thumbing at the tears and looking into frightened eyes.

 

“There’s a candy-wrapper in your hair, kid,” he tells her, “I’m gonna take it out. It might hurt, but I’ll be careful as I can. Capisce?”

 

She pulls at her hair in response, eyes going to the wrapper. Suddenly, she’s pulling out of his embrace and grabbing at it angrily, crying out in frustration when the thing sticks further into her hair, making a mess of it and knotting it up good.

 

Dean bites back a curse and then, reaches out quickly to stop her, grabbing her hand and holding it aloft. She glares at him, stomping one tiny foot on the ground and he shakes his head.

 

“Calm down, kiddo,” he says. “I’ll get it out, but the more you press it, the worse the knot’s gonna get.”

 

She pushes back, yanking harshly at her hair – a few strands give, coming off in her hand and she stops, staring at them in morbid fascination. Dean doesn’t do anything, just watching her, recognizing the expression of angry helplessness on her face. He’s seen it far too many times on Sam’s face – he sees it on _his_ own face, in the mirror, every damn morning.

 

Moving forward, he places a resolute hand on her shoulder, which has begun shaking again.

 

 _Lemme help,_ he signs and her bottom lip quivers. She looks down at the ugly knot in her hair and then up at him again, eyes guarded, before she turns around and offers the long, golden hair to him, shivering.

 

Dean draws her in close – she’s trembling again, _hard_ – and sifts his hand through her hair. For a moment, he’s stumped. What the hell does _he_ know about girls and hair and untangling shit anyway?

 

But then she leans into him trustingly and the uncertainty vanishes in the face of her fear. Swallowing hard, he carefully parts her hair, running a soothing knuckle down the nape of her neck when she whimpers. The wrapper is stuck well and good and his chest burns with the red-hot anger from earlier in the evening.

 

God-fucking-damn _idiot_ kids and their parents who don’t fucking teach children that bullying is _wrong_.

 

Tenderly, he pulls out strand after strand, trying to make it as painless as possible. Clearly, he’s not doing a very good job – Claire is mewling again, tiny little kitten cries that hurt his ears.

 

A distant memory, one that’s been lurking around in a dusty corner of his mind, offers itself up to him.

 

_Dean was hot, so hot... His skin felt like something was burning him out from inside, his limbs aching with sweat and fire and too much hot..._

 

_And then there was a sudden relief, as something cold and wet was placed on his forehead. He cried out in relief, silent tears tracking down the side of his eyes as someone – Mom – tried to soothe the fever. Her hand was soft against his skin and suddenly, the fire in his body and the tremor of his limbs were a distant memory as she distracted him with gentle humming._

 

_"Hey Jude, don't make it bad...”_

 

_The four year-old stopped shivering, trying to focus through the heat and pain on his mother's soft voice as she soothed him into a warm sleep._

 

_“Take a sad song and make it better..."_

 

And then, two months later, she was gone. _He_ was the one doing the singing to Sammy when the kid was sick and tired and whimpering from fever.  

 

And he sings now, a gentle hum that's more tune than song, more notes than lyrics.  It's stupid and dumb and Claire probably thinks he's crazy, but god _damned_ it, he's strung inside out and upside down and his heart fucking _aches_ and all he wants is for everything to be okay. He hurt Sam, _hurt_ him, but he loves his brother – he _does_ –

 

He doesn't know if he's thinking about the little girl in his arms or himself, but the song soothes the ache in his chest.  

 

_"Hey Jude, don’t make it bad...”_

 

The notes fall off his lips like magic even though it's been years since he sung anything other than humming under his breath at the garage.  Claire tilts her head, ears pricking up and the trembling stills.  

 

_“Take a sad song and make it better..."_

 

Hesitantly, she leans back, and he quickly slips off the last few strands of molten gold away from the wrapper. Claire winces, back going stiff, before he hums the line again and melts into his chest, resting her head against his neck.  

 

_"Remember to let her into your heart…"_

 

To Dean's eternal surprise, her quivering hands raise, forming the shapes as her lips mouth the words she can't sing. His eyes burn, but his lips curve into a small smile and they finish the last line together.  

 

_"Then we can start to make it better."_

 

Claire sniffles, turning back to face him and he rubs away the tears from her cheek.  

 

"You like that, huh?" he asks softly. She whimpers, pressing her face into the crook of his shoulder and he runs his hand through her scalp, trying to soothe the hurt he knows she feels from the wrapper tugging at her long hair.  

 

 _Da-daddy sings... Daddy sings it to me,_ she signs and he chuckles.  

 

"Well, he's a smart man if he likes The Beatles," Dean mutters, pulling back and standing up. He winces as the muscles protest; he's been kneeling too long. Claire looks up at him with terrified eyes and he just smiles at her, ruffling her hair and taking her hand.  

 

"Wanna go find him?" he asks gently and she nods emphatically.  

 

_Yes, please._

 

Dean opens his mouth to say something when he hears another familiar voice.  

 

"Claiwe!"

 

He recognizes the voice from this morning again – Claire’s little sister – the same redhead she pushed on the swings so very carefully, like _he_ used to watch out for Sammy back when they were kids.  

 

The smaller girl comes racing down the street, a panicked expression on her face, crimson braid flying behind her as she runs on stubby little legs. Her head is spinning from side to side as she cries out her sister’s names again and again, and suddenly, Dean's chest aches… because _this_ , this was _Sam_ once, calling for Dean in fear and panic and needing his big brother.  

 

The girl notices her sister standing next to him, wringing her hands and with a soft cry, she marches up to them, hands on her hips. She's glaring, those green eyes wide and angry. Her little feet are stomping on the ground and Dean blinks when he sees that's she's wearing a long tunic, similar to the ones on he used to love seeing on _Lord of the Rings_. Wait – _is that a quiver and a bow strapped to her back?!_

 

She's scowling as she runs up to them. Claire drops his hands and rushes to her, grabbing her baby sister up in a scared embrace, still shaking and wary. The redhead wraps little arms around the bigger girl, scowling at Dean over her shoulder.  

 

A moment later, she splits from the blonde girl and runs to Dean. Before he can blink, she stretches out stubby, freckled leg and kicks him hard, sticking out her tongue at him. It doesn't hurt – she's too small to do any damage – but Dean jumps backs in surprise, yelping.  

 

"Kid, what the _hell_?" he cries, eyes narrowing at her. She meets his gaze challengingly, pink tongue poking out through white little teeth, the scowl on her face a cross between charming and annoyed.  

 

"Awe ywou buggin' my sista, mista?" she exclaims, hands back on her hips.  

 

A laugh bubbles in Dean's throat, the anger and the restlessness and the tension from this evening fading away entirely.  The lisp is just absolutely adorable and the way she so readily jumps to her elder sister’s defense makes him grin. God, he's a fucking _sap_ , but damn if he doesn't find the two of them entirely too cute for their own good.  

 

Whoever the father is, Dean is going to punch the jackass in the nuts for letting them get into so much trouble.

 

Though, from what he saw in the morning, the dad _did_ seem to love them. The girls at least adore him and Dean sighs as he bends down to pull at the long, red braid gently.  

 

"I'm not bugging your sister, kid," he tells her.  "I'm just trying to help her find your daddy."

 

The redhead glares at him, moving back to stand protectively over her sister. Claire reaches out and touches her shoulder, a scolding expression on her face.  

 

 _It's true, Emma,_ she signs. _He saved me from bullies._

 

"Oh,” the younger sister – Emma – bites her lip, looking up at him with a contrite expression. She steps forward, holds her hands to her ears and nods. "Sowwy," she shuffles from foot to foot and Dean can't help the bark of laughter that escapes his lips.

 

"'S alright," he mutters, bending down to rub at her head. "I would do the same for my brother."

 

 _And your sister?_ Claire signs. _You said you have a little sister... Who likes princesses and can kick... kick as-butt?_

 

The way her hands hesitate over the word ‘ass’ makes Dean grin brighter. He chuckles, nodding.  "For her too," he agrees. "Now, shall we go find-?"

 

Before he can continue, another voice, loud and rough yells Claire’s name.

 

“Claire?!”

 

Dean looks up to find a tall man, wearing a brown trench coat and a pair of fucking _angel wings_ , barreling down the street. His hair is askew, as though he's repeatedly run his hands through it, and his head whips left and right, eerily similar to Emma from a few moments previously.  

 

No way.  

 

No _fucking_ way.  

 

That voice... That figure... Those _eyes_...  

 

No way in _hell_ Dean's going to forget any of that, not to mention that stupid little trench coat from almost a week ago.  

 

 _This_ is the guy who saved him from Gordon Walker.  

 

No wonder he seemed familiar in the morning when Dean had caught sight of him at the park. He’d been too far away to see his face, but the six-foot-frame had struck a definite chord in his memory and now he knows why.

 

What are the goddamned odds?

 

"Da- _ddy_!" Emma cries. Claire shivers next to them and then pushes past her little sister. The man in the trench coat hears his daughter’s cry and then turns to them, his wild expression of fear and terror melting away into the same relief Dean saw on Claire not twenty minutes ago. He runs to them, going down on one knee, holding his arms open for his daughter.  

 

The blonde races into his embrace, burying her face in his chest and Emma follows suit, running up to him and grabbing his left arm. He bundles them both up close, lifting them up much like he did in the morning. Dean walks close, the angry condemnation for _losing_ two girls like that sitting on his tongue. But he’s forced to swallow his accusation when he sees the expression on the man's face.  

 

His eyes – those gorgeous eyes that Claire has so clearly inherited – are closed, but Dean is surprised to see faint tear tracks disappear into the rough stubble of his cheeks.  The angel wings that puff up behind his trench coat are ruffled and damn near tattered; even from here, Dean can see the way he holds them close and that he's shaking _hard_.  

 

"Claire, _Emma_ ," he breathes, his voice rough and quivering. Dean hears the desperation, the fear and suddenly, he's sure that this is the man's worst nightmare come to life.  

 

"Oh, thank _God,_ " he's murmuring, over and over again, pressing the girls close to him, kissing their faces and shoulder and any part he can reach. Claire and Emma cling to him, the redhead rubbing her cheek against his and the blonde grasping at his coat.  

 

He pulls back suddenly, rubbing a knuckle down the length of Claire’s cheek, wiping away the few tears that have fallen. She is still shuddering in his arms, but the look of sheer desperation is beginning to disappear, relief and warmth replacing it.

 

“Are you alright, Claire?” he asks, voice husky and rough with unshed tears. Claire nods and the man turns to Emma, kissing her cheek. “And you, Em?” he murmurs. Emma nods emphatically, sticking her thumb in her mouth and sucking on it enthusiastically.

 

“’M faain’, Da’wy,” she mouths around it and the man staggers back in relief, his grip on his daughters slacking enough that they slide gently to the ground.

 

It’s obvious to Dean that he loves them both desperately, that whatever happened tonight was probably a freak accident. As if to confirm his suspicions, Claire’s name is called out a third time that night.

 

“Claire! Emma!”

 

 _Becky_ friggin’ Rosen is running down the street towards them, dressed in a slutty nurse’s costume. Dean winces as the pieces fall into place – clearly, _she’s_ let them loose, though how she’s related to them is a mystery. Honestly, Becky’s almost as creepy as that bitch Ruby herself; she’s been after Sam’s ass for years now, never mind that the kid is a full year and half younger than her.

 

She runs straight into the trenchcoat-wearing dude, grabbing Claire and yanking her into an embrace. The blonde stiffens in her grasp, but the teenager hardly notices, babbling excitedly.

 

“Oh thank god, he found you, I’m so sorry, I turned around for a _second_ and you were both gone-” she pulls Emma also into her arms, and ignores the way the redhead squirms, “- you shouldn’t _do_ that, you shouldn’t run like that, Mr. Newman could’ve lost you, you could get _hurt_ -”

 

“Ms. Rosen,” the girls’ father interrupts her politely, skillfully untangling her from his daughters and drawing them both closer to himself. Claire clutches at his coat, sighing in relief and Emma just sticks out her tongue at the teen, who is, apparently, their sitter.

 

Becky looks at him with an expression that’s a cross between lust and remorse. Dean shudders at it; man, this girl gives him the friggin’ creeps every time.

 

“I’m fired, aren’t I?” she sounds petulant, just like Emma did a few moments ago, but on her, it just sounds stupid and immature.

 

“Indeed,” the father’s voice is frosty. “A _single_ phone call… I leave you alone with the girls for the space of a single phone call and you managed to-to-”

 

He’s shaking, though in anger or fear, Dean can't tell. He watches as the man’s grip on Emma’s shoulders tighten; the girl squirms and he instantly realizes his mistake, offering his youngest an apologetic glance and pulling away.

 

“They just _ran_ , Mr. Newman!” Becky protests. “I turned my back for _one_ second and-”

 

“To flirt with the son of the woman handing out the candy in the previous house,” the rough voice drops even lower when furious and Dean wonders what he might sound like in bed. Banishing the stray thought, he shuffles from foot to foot, wondering what he’s still doing here. He should- yes, he should go home.

 

Back home, where _Sam’s_ probably waiting, with a split lip and black eye that _Dean_ gave him.

 

He swallows convulsively, the bile flooding his throat as all the tension returns – nope, he’s good, he’ll just fucking stay here and watch this shit instead.

 

Becky flounders, stuttering and stammering. “I-I just… um… I-uh…”

 

“Ms. Rosen, thank you,” the man informs her coldly, voice stiff and polite; Dean is torn between pitying her and wanting to laugh at the way her eyes widen in defeat.

 

“But you will need to find yourself some other new employment from now on,” he continues, “We will not be needing your assistance any longer.”

 

 _Some other new employment? Not be needing your assistance?_ Who the fuck talks like that?

 

The nerdy little tough dude in a trenchcoat who saved his ass behind a bar, apparently… whose name Dean really should get at some point, because that’s too long a nickname to call him, even in the space of his own head.

 

“But-but, Mr. Newman,” Becky whispers, and Dean blinks – that’s right, she called him Mr. Newman earlier. Newman turns his back to her deliberately, shaking his head.

 

“Thank you, Ms. Rosen,” he repeats firmly, “Please return to our home and pack up all your things. I shall expect you to be gone by the time I return with the girls.”

 

A part of Dean wonders where the mother of the girls is, but the thought fizzles away as he watches Newman glare at the teenager who is obviously his sitter. Becky just sputters, before huffing and then stomping off in anger. Newman sighs, the fight draining out of him, and gathers the girls closer to himself, burying his face in Emma’s long hair.

 

“Da-ddy,” Emma pronounces the two syllables distinctly and Dean understands that that’s her own way of calling for her father, “Da- _ddy_ , youa’ win’s!”

 

She tugs at those fugly-ass white wings, pink lips curled into a loud pout and red brows narrowing over a scowl.

 

Newman sighs and shakes his head a second time, “Sorry, Em. I ruined them by mistake. I do apologize,” his voice is grave and serious. Dean watches in fascination as the younger girl bites her lip, considering his apology, before nodding back just as seriously, offering him her hand. He wants to laugh; so the girl takes herself so seriously because her Dad humors her so. It’s sweet and he can't help but smile at it.

 

“’S al’wigh’, Da-ddy,” she tells him, “I fogiwe you.”

 

“Why thank you, milady,” Newman murmurs before looking to his eldest. “Claire?” he murmurs softly, “Baby, you’re still shaking. What happened?”

 

“Som’ bu-bullie’ _huwt’d_ hea’, Da-ddy!” Emma claims, her eyes wide and round and concerned. She turns to her sister and kisses her cheek, taking the blonde’s hand in her own and patting it.

 

Newman sucks in a deep breath and Dean can literally see the way he has to stamp down on the anger, his back going ramrod stiff and his eyes darkening with rage. But his touch remains gentle as he rubs Claire’s other cheek and presses a tender kiss to her temple.

 

“Claire?” he calls. The blonde shakes her head and smiles at him timidly.

 

 _I’m okay, daddy,_ she signs. _This man saved me._

 

“Yea, Da-ddy!” Emma chirps, “This mista’ wan’t buggin’ Claiwe, he _sav’d_ hea’!”

 

Dean’s holding back the peals of laughter that are crawling up his throat; god, Emma’s all enthusiasm and protectiveness and warmth and he’s amused as hell by her. He’s touched too, by the stamp of approval, and finally, Newman looks up, taking note of the man who’s apparently saved his daughter.

 

The moment is a replay of the first time they met – blue meets green, clashing violently with one another. Dean can see the recognition click into his face; those orbs just go completely round with surprise before the walls are thrown up and something guarded slips into place. He blinks – what the fuck?

 

“ _You_ ,” Newman breathes and Dean shrugs.

 

“Hey man,” he mutters, shuffling from one foot to another. The air is suddenly cold; Dean notices suddenly that he can see his breath. Newman slowly rises, eyes never leaving his as he walks closer to them.

 

Emma squirms in his embrace and he sets her down. She runs over to Dean, pressing herself against his legs and he startles.

 

“Wha’s yowa nam’ mista’?” she asks, sticking her thumb into her mouth again. Dean hesitantly places his hand on her head, meeting Newman’s probing gaze. The man is watching him carefully, and with a jolt, Dean realizes – the last time he saw him, Dean was drunk off his ass and gettin’ beat up in the alleyway behind a fucking bar by goons who were obviously drug dealers.

 

No wonder the man is wary about his daughters interacting with him.

 

“Dean,” he mutters gruffly in answer to Emma’s question. “My name is Dean.”

 

“Dee’!” Emma’s lisp doesn’t allow her to pronounce his name properly and he chuckles inspite of himself. Newman’s lips curve up in an answering smile and Dean shrugs again.

 

“Hello, Dean,” he holds out a hand and the green-eyed man blinks, taking it. His grip is firm, unyielding, eyes flashing a strong warning and Dean tilts his head in acknowledgement – of fucking course he ain’t gonna hurt the girls.

 

“Hey, uh-”

 

“Casper,” Newman replies. “I’m Casper Newman. And you’ve already made Claire and Emma’s acquaintance.”

 

“Uh, yeah, man,” Dean tells him – this guy has to be a joke, right? Who even says things like _made your acquaintance_? It occurs to him that Sam would get along great with this nerd.

 

Sam… fuck, he should get back to his brother.

 

He doesn’t want to, _goddamn_ , he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to face the fact that he just snapped and beat the ten shits out of the baby brother he’s supposed to look after and he sure as hell doesn’t want to face the face that Dad fucking wants a thousand dollars wired to him by Monday.

 

Where the _fuck_ is he going to go looking for that kind of money?

 

How in _hell’s_ name is he supposed to face Sam after what he just did?

 

The tension returns suddenly, coils, bubbles, hisses beneath his skin, tightening his chest and leaving his heart thundering against his rib-cage.

 

Claire kicks her legs slowly against Newman’s belly and he puts her down. Dean’s distracted from his internal panic as the blonde clambers to him and tugs at his jeans. He bends down with a raised eyebrow, tilting his head as she draws in close.

 

 _Thank you, Mr. Dean_ , she signs. Her hands are still wobbly, but the smile on her face is bright. _I like you_.

 

A snort escapes his lips and he grins at her despite the way his chest is aching – god, he’s fucked up with Sam, but this girl…this girl, he managed to save. It should make him feel proud, but it just sends a sick feeling swirling through his gut. He saved a stranger, but his own baby brother… _him_ , he failed.

 

He opens his mouth to respond and then closes it again, eyes burning at the thought of the brother he taught how to speak not once, but twice. He raises his own hands and signs back, Claire’s answering smile almost blinding in its intensity.

 

_You’re welcome, kiddo. I like you too._

 

Newman startles, eyes narrowing in surprise. “ _You_ know sign language?” he asks in surprise and Dean shrugs.

 

“Shouldn’t I?” he challenges. Newman meets his gaze – yes, he was drunk off his ass behind a bar the other night, but that’s not _all_ that he is. A moment later, the man in the trenchcoat lowers his eyes with something akin to shame and Dean smirks, turning back to Claire.

 

She tugs on his shirt and he bends low. Leaning in, she places a soft, shy kiss to his cheek before she runs back to her father, hiding bashfully against his legs. Newman smiles at her, picking her up again and settling her on his hip.

 

“Hey Mista’?” it’s Emma’s turn to tug on his shirt and he turns to her wondering if she’s also going to kiss him.

 

She doesn’t; instead, she sticks out her tongue and bonks his nose with her little fist, green eyes twinkling merrily.

 

“You didn’ _bug_ Claiwe,” she declares, “But you big.”

 

The statement is utterly incongruent, doesn’t make any sense whatsoever, and Dean can't help the laugh that bubbles out of his chest. Before he can say anything else though, she leans in and smacks a wet, lippy kiss to his cheek and then races back to her father, who is watching them amusedly.

 

“That wasn’t very nice, Em,” he tells her sternly, though his eyes are also warm and mischievous. The redhead shrugs, throwing her wispy braid over her shoulder. “I an elf-lady, Da- _ddy_. Elf-ladies no’ nice, they giu’ oda’s.”

 

Dean turns confused eyes to Newman, who clarifies, “Elf-ladies give orders.”

 

The mechanic grins, shaking his head, “Elf-ladies are bad _ass_ , kid,” he tells her, “Just like Batman.”

 

Claire grins at him from behind her father’s trenchcoat, though Newman frowns at the swear word. _I like princesses too,_ she signs and Dean laughs out loud.

 

Newman drops Emma’s hand and walks closer, getting right in Dean’s face; he jumps back, glaring.

 

“Dude, what _the_ -?” he yelps. Newman stares at him, blue eyes never wavering, as though he’s trying to look into his soul and Dean shifts from foot to foot at the uncomfortable scrutiny.

 

“Thank you,” Newman says suddenly, holding out hand. “For everything. If you hadn’t… Claire… I… _thank_ you.”

 

His voice is sincere, but his eyes are haunted. He’s clearly protective of his girls, and in a flash, Dean gets it. He _understands_ – he’s been there. Trauma took away Claire’s voice, but it hasn’t left him unaffected; _Sam_ stopped speaking, but _Dean’s_ heart broke a million times in those years when silence was their only companion, so much so that they could hear it.

 

He pulls back a little, leaving some space between them, but he takes the proffered hand, shaking it. The man has a firm grip, but Dean can't help noticing the long, slim fingers that are incongruently rough. He banishes the thought of those fingers running over his own body; damn it, can't his fucking libido stop for a goddamned second?

 

“We should get going,” Newman suddenly announces and Emma claps.

 

“Can’y!” she cheers. Claire though, shakes her head, _I want to go home, Em._ She’s trying to hide the shaking of her hands, trying to be brave and it’s so reminiscent of the way he used to fake it for Sam that Dean’s heart aches.

 

“Emma, I think that’s enough for tonight?” Newman’s voice isn’t strict, but he turns to her with a firm look. Emma pouts, her bottom lip jutting out in protest before she heaves a theatrical sigh and nods.

 

“ _Fain_ ,” she’s sucking on her thumb, expression souring as Newman bends down to pick her up.

 

“Too much candy will make your brain rot, kid,” Dean adds and she sticks her tongue out at him.

 

“G’away,” she mutters, burying her face into her father’s coat and Dean blinks, surprised at the sudden change of attitude. Newman has a bemused look on his face as he shrugs.

 

“They’re tired,” he offers and Dean nods.

 

“Yeah man,” he mutters. “So am I.”

 

“Thank you again,” he tells him formally. “I won’t forget it. Should you need any assistance, please don’t hesitate to ask, Mr. Winchester.”

 

Dean snorts – he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the strange way the dude talks – but nods in acquiescence.

 

“Same here,” he responds.

 

 _Bye, Mr. Dean_ , Claire signs.

 

 _Hang tight, Claire,_ he signs back.

 

Emma just sticks her nose in her father’s neck and refuses to look at him and Dean tries not to get offended.

 

“See ya around, man,” he tells Newman, who nods and then, he’s walking down the street, steps fast-paced, gripping his girls tightly. Claire waves at Dean over her Dad’s shoulder and Dean waves back, sighing.

 

It isn’t until the man disappears around the corner that Dean realizes – he never told the dude his last name. So how the hell did he already know?

 

Fuck, he probably checked up on Dean after the bar-brawl. And if he’s asked around, he found out about Sammy and the drugs and the whole bullshit mess that’s his life. Sioux Falls is a small town, rife with gossip and something as big as Sam nearly _dying_ from overdose made the fucking newspapers.

 

God-fucking-dammit.

 

And now, he has to go back home and face the screw-up he’s responsible for.

 

His heart heavy, head hanging low, Dean forces himself to turn back, each step as painful as walking on scorching coal, the bile coating the insides of his mouth.

 

He _hit_ Sam.

 

Now, he has to face him.

 

Can he fuck up any more?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER THOUGHTS -
> 
> This has, hands down, been THE BEST chapter I've written. If you've read any of my stories, you know I'm a pure sucker for any Daddy!Destiel and this scene was the second one I imagined as soon as I came up with the plot. The first thing is coming later, much later. :P Drawing the parallel to Sam's own mutism as Dean tries to struggle through the trauma of causing harm to the brother he's supposed to protect - the chapter wrote itself and it's been my absolute favorite thus far!
> 
> Thoughts? Comments? Suggestions or criticism? 
> 
> Thanks to all those reading and commenting and leaving kudos, I'll see you in two weeks!


	8. Down the Rabbit Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Cas and Claire struggle with their ghosts of their pasts. Meanwhile, Dean gets some shocking news. MAJOR angst in this, definite tissues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to me beta, Baya-the-dragon, for this one; it fought tooth and nail with me and if not for her kicking my ass into shape, I'd never have gotten it done or rewritten a huge chunk of it, so thanks Bee!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS - Recollections of past trauma, depictions of graphic torture, blood, gore, drugs, murder, panic attacks, selective mutism

**Chapter 7 - Down the Rabbit Hole**

 

Claire is still tense in his embrace when they turn up the corner to enter their street. She is clinging to his coat tightly, wrapping herself around him as best as she can. And Emma is no better - she’s gumming her fist like she used to when she was barely a year old. The look on her face is sulky and tired and she hasn't said a word since they left Winchester, pouting angrily. Castiel sighs mentally; he knows the signs and he knows that they are moments away from a full meltdown. For all that his girls are generally well behaved, Emma can be quite demanding and stubborn when she doesn't get her way. Claire’s a bit better and she usually helps calm her baby sister down, but with her shivering in his embrace, he doesn't know how much he’s going to be able to handle at one go.

 

_Fuck._

 

He doesn't usually swear, but tonight seems to be that kind of night. Missouri warned him - something big was going to happen.

 

He just didn't expect that it would be something as big as almost losing his two girls.

 

_Goddamn childhood bullies._

 

“Da-ddy!” Emma is whining and Castiel looks down at her, glaring up at him sulkily. “Da- _ddy_!”

 

“What is it, Em?” he asks wearily. Claire's grip on his trench coat tightens and he rubs her back soothingly, meeting his younger kid’s irritated gaze challengingly.

 

“Can’y,” she waves her pumpkin candy bag around. “I wan’ can’y.”

 

Castiel purses his lips as he walks past the little gate that leads to their new home and kicks it closed with his feet. He frowns at Emma and shakes his head. “Not now, Em,” he tells her sternly. “We agreed to get back home, did we not? No more trick-or-treating for the night.”

 

She _hmphs_ , but nods, “Can I _eat_ can’y?” she mutters, “At leas’?”

 

Bending down, he sets them both down on the ground gently. They’re in front of the house and he fumbles with the pockets of his trench coat as he tries to pull out the keys from within. Claire, still quiet, still lost in a haze, leans against his leg, wrapping her little arms around him the way she used to when she was a toddler Emma’s age.

 

“Em,” he sighs as he finally fishes the damn keys out, “It’s late. That much candy after dinner time is bad for your teeth, you know that.”

 

“I _wan’ can’y_!” she cries out suddenly, stomping her feet on the ground and Castiel blinks - right, the meltdown is here sooner than he expected. He quickly jams the key into the hole and turns it, kicking the door open.

 

“Emma,” he begins sternly, but the toddler, tired and sulky, has begun her full-out tantrum and isn't paying attention.

 

“Can’y, Da-dd _ddyyy_ !!!” she screams, “ _I wan’ can’y_!”

 

Behind him, Claire whimpers, huddling closer and Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose where a headache is beginning to form even as he reaches out to pat his eldest’s hair gently.

 

“I wan’, I wan’ _, I wan’!_ ” Emma is shrieking by now and Castiel, ignoring the three-year old for a moment, bends down in front of Claire, whose eyes have turned glassy and are far, far, away. It scares him - he hasn't seen that expression on her face since the initial days of her mutism. Even when she has nightmares and flashbacks, that utterly vacant and yet somehow terrified expression doesn't really return.

 

“Claire, baby?” he whispers. “Go on inside, alright? I’ll bring Emma in in just a moment… will you go in and sit on the couch?”

 

Claire’s expression somehow turns even _more_ terrified. She whimpers slowly, shaking her head emphatically and throws herself into his arms, refusing to let him go. Her grip is just shy of painful and it startles him - it’s reminiscent of the way she clung to him just after they had made their escape from the estate.

 

It worries him.

 

Sighing, he palms her head and picks her up, settling her on her hip before turning to Emma, whose shrieks have turned into quiet hiccups and cries.

 

“ _Can’y_ ,” she coughs, rubbing at her eyes with a dirty fist that is wet from her own saliva. “Da-da- _ddy_ ,” she’s sniffling and Castiel closes his eyes in exhaustion, opening his arm to her and lifting her off the ground as well.

 

“That’s _enough_ , Emma,” he says as sternly as he can manage, “You can eat all the candy you would like tomorrow. Now, I’m tired, _you’re_ tired and Claire is still shaking. We are going inside, we are going to wash up and then get to bed. Do you understand?”

 

He doesn't often get strict with them, but Emma really isn't giving him much of a choice. Add to that the fact that the adrenaline, the fear and the nausea is still thrumming through his veins - Emma’s not the only one in need of a meltdown. He’s holding it together for now, but he needs out and he won't get it till the girls are safely tucked in bed.

 

“Can’y,” she protests, but her voice is weak, even if tears are still rolling down her chubby cheeks. Claire sniffles herself and then reaches with shaking hands across his coat to rub at Emma’s cheek softly.

 

 _Em, please…?_ Her fingers make her plea obvious and Emma finally falls silent, her expression turning contrite in the wake of her big sister’s fear. “Sowwy,” she whispers and then tucks her face in the crook of Castiel’s neck. Disaster averted, he sighs as he walks them all into the house, kicking the door closed behind him. He leads them straight to their rooms, dumping Claire on her bed, Emma curling up next to her.

 

“Let’s get you out of those costumes,” he murmurs, “Claire?”

 

The five-year old, who has been simply staring into space, looks at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes. Castiel pushes the fear that threatens to choke him back down his throat - _he_ can fall apart later. Right now, he’s going to help his daughters get ready for bed, tuck them in and sing them to sleep.

 

If there's one thing he's learnt in the past few years, it's that routine keeps things going on bad days like this.

 

Gently, he reaches out to kiss her cheek and then pulls the Batman belt off her. Shuddering, she throws her arms up, letting him remove the costume easily, leaning against him trustingly. The adrenaline and fear from before seem to have vanished and he can see that she is about to crash, so he makes a quick work of her clothes, stripping her with practiced ease. It doesn't take him long after that to get her changed into her jammies. She doesn't protest as he pushes her down on to the bed tenderly, palming her forehead affectionately before turning to the redhead. Emma throws her arms open without asking, already having removed her bow and arrows, leaving only her gown for him to strip off her. It takes even lesser time for her to shift into her sleeping clothes and then she’s clinging to him, tucking her chin into his neck and sighing quietly.

 

“Claire?” he whispers, “Do you want for Emma to stay with you tonight?”

 

There’s no response and he turns around to see that she’s already asleep. Emma yawns into his skin, dribbles of her saliva falling down her chin and on to his neck and he muffles a groan as he gets up and walks into her room.

 

“No’ sleepin’ wif’ Claiwe?” she asks sleepily and he kisses her cheek in response.

 

“Not tonight, Em,” he says softly. “If she needs you, I’ll bring her to you, alright? But you rest for now. You’ve been a big girl today, running around and looking after your big sister.”

 

She smiles against his neck and he rubs her back, setting her down gently on the bed. Yawning again, she curls into her blankets as he tucks them around her tightly. Leaning down, he kisses the corner of her mouth lightly, wiping away the light drool and then turns to walk out when her small voice stops him.

 

“Da-ddy?”

 

He turns back with a raised eyebrow to see her fidgeting slightly. It’s surprising; Emma isn't one to be hesitant or quiet. She’s the loud, boisterous one who doesn’t take no for an answer. “What is it?” he asks and she looks up at him in consternation.

 

“Sowwy,” she murmurs, “I sowwy. Lou you.”

 

Throat tightening, he offers her a small smile and walks back to the bed to gently kiss her again. She sighs and leans her head against the pillow, closing her eyes as he whispers the answer back to her.

 

“It’s alright, Emma,” he mutters, “I love you too. Sleep now.”

 

Apology delivered and accepted, she drifts off in a short time and Castiel sighs, jumping off the bed and walking out, switching the lights off as he goes. He leaves the door open as always and quickly goes into his own room, pulling his phone out as he goes.

 

He dials Missouri’s number as he pulls his coat and his shirt off, dropping them on the floor in a haphazard manner. Dumping the pumpkin bags on the ground next to them, he drops to the edge of his bed, slumping over his own knees, closing his hands and rubbing the palm of one hand over his face as he holds the phone to his ear with the other.

 

Missouri picks up on the very first ring.

 

“You’re shakin’ boy,” she greets him and Castiel is startled to realize that he _is_ , in fact, shaking. He looks down at himself - his knees are wobbling and his hands are trembling. He breathes in deeply through his nose, closing his eyes again, not saying anything.

 

“What happened, Cas?” Missouri’s voice is kind and warm.

 

It breaks the dam.

 

Castiel _wheezes,_ great gulping sobs overtaking his chest, even as he struggles to breathe. Tears blind his eyes, the paranoia, the fear and the _rush-the rush-the rush_ from the evening crashing into him again, thrumming through his veins. The world shrinks and his stomach hurts and it hurts, oh God, it hurts- _hurts-can’t breathe-can’t see-_

 

“Cas, get a hold of yourself, boy,” Missouri says sharply. “You’re gonn’ hurt yourself…”

 

“Mi-Missouri,” he hisses desperately, rubbing at his eyes as he slides down the foot of his bed to crash against the floor. “Th-the girls… Claire and Em… th-they… god, I-”

 

“They’re fine, Cas,” she mutters, her voice turning kind and motherly. “Whatever happened tonight was meant to happen. It’s big, it’s huge and there was nothing you coulda done to stop it.”

 

“I lost them, Missouri!” he protests miserably. “Clearly, I’m not capable of caring for them on my own!”

 

There… his greatest fear, voiced out. In retrospect, today’s incident wasn't big - Claire _was_ bullied, but she was also saved. And the creepy babysitter was fired, even if it did leave him scrambling to find someone last minute. But that was a fight for tomorrow… tonight - tonight, he just wants to let go of his insecurities and cry a little. He’s _never_ been without someone to help him care for the girls. At the estate, Meg was there and even if his brothers were drug dealers and murderers, they knew rules and structure. After that, Anna had been his crutch to lean on and then Missouri came along in the wake of her death.

 

He’s so alone now.

 

“Cas, boy,” Missouri sighs. “You are gonn’ be fine. It’s okay to make mistakes - all parents do.”

 

“Bu-but none of them could get their kids _killed_ , Missouri,” he hiccups. “If… if… _Mich-_ I-just…”

 

He cuts himself off instantly, bile rising to his throat at the realization at what he’s almost revealed to her. But Missouri is smart; she knows enough to not ask and instead just focuses on trying to calm him down.

 

“Cas,” she mutters, “You coulda no more prevented tonight than you coulda stopped a damn tide. It was fated to happen - Claire and Emma are _safe_ , Cas. You saved them.”

 

“ _I_ didn't,” he answers, the knowledge sitting bitter on his tongue. God, he is _absolutely_ grateful for Winchester’s interference, he _is_ . There’s no telling what might have happened to Claire otherwise… but still, the idea that he wasn't there to protect her - _again_ \- sits heavy on his chest and reminds him that he’s failing as a father.

 

It hurts.

 

“You’re keeping them safe now, Cas,” she amends her statement. “No parent can protect their child forever, even if you try. The girls are gonn’ grow up eventually and you’ll haveta let ‘em go… for now, go kiss your girls and get to bed, boy.”

 

“I’m terrified, Missouri,” he whispers. “I-I did… I did something stupid and-and I’m terrified that Emma and Claire will pay the price… I just…”

 

“Do you believe that whatever you did was right, Cas?” Missouri interrupts. “Do you regret doing it?”

 

Castiel blinks - _did_ he do right by saving Winchester behind the bar that night? He bites his lip as he considers the question.

 

Yes, jumping into the fight that night could possibly bring him retribution from whoever had been selling to the man… Sam Winchester’s drug addiction and rehabilitation could pose a potential threat to his peace, even if the boy’s suppliers were not directly connected to the Novak family. Michael and Lucifer have their toes dipped into every drug pond in the country and it wouldn't be too hard to ferret out Castiel if they knew the truth.

 

But had he not saved Winchester… would the man have come to Claire’s aid tonight? Presuming, of course, that he had been able to save himself that night.

 

 _Yes, he would,_ Castiel decided… the man didn't know that Claire was Cas’s daughter, didn't know that she belonged to the man who saved his life, didn't know anything about her and yet, fought off kids whose parents were probably his next-door neighbors to protect her.

 

Winchester - _Dean,_  Castiel recalls - is a good man.

 

And he’s startled to realize that no, he _doesn't_ regret saving his life in the alley that night, _doesn't_ regret jumping in to help him, if only because saving his life that night meant that he had protected Claire tonight, albeit in a roundabout manner.

 

“No,” he tells Missouri finally. The woman has remained silent, waiting for him to work it out and he can almost see her Cheshire-Cat smile.

 

“No,” he repeats, “I don't regret what I did… I was trying to _help_ someone and… and I just…” he trails off, not really sure what to say.

 

But Missouri’s never needed him to say anything, really. She can fill in the gaps fine on her own - whether that’s due to her psychic ability or just her really brilliant intuition, Castiel doesn't know. He doesn't care either, because it means that she understands what he has to say before he even knows it.

 

“Then hang on there,” she tells him quietly. “Good things are comin’, for all of ya. It’s gonn’ be hard, but things _will_ work out. Have faith, Cas.”

 

Breathing in deeply, Castiel nods, even though he knows she cannot see him.

 

“Thank you,” he whispers, his throat raw, feeling strung out from the inside. She chuckles, murmuring something about being an idiot before ordering him to, “Get the hell into bed, boy, I can _feel_ your exhaustion,” and then hangs up.

 

Sighing, Castiel remains motionless for a long, tense moment. He doesn't know if he will be able to sleep; the fear is still skirting beneath his ribs and his chest is still entirely too tight. But the world isn't as small as it was and he can breathe now, so he counts it as a win and then pushes himself off the floor. Quickly dropping his pants, he pulls on a ratty old T-Shirt that Gabriel had given him almost a decade ago, rushing through his nightly routine of brushing his teeth and washing his face before he walks back into Claire’s room.

 

The five-year old is curled into a C-shape, her little fists tucked beneath her chin. There is a frown on her face that he aches to see - clearly, she’s not getting the full night’s sleep he hoped she would. Despite the adrenaline crash, she’s sleeping fitfully, which means that she’s probably going to end up with a nightmare.

 

Every instinct is screaming at him to _protect-protect-protect_ his baby girl, but there’s nothing he can do except climb in next to her and gently run his hand over her bony shoulder. She turns instinctively and curls into his side, burying her face into his torso. The sense of wrongness that hasn't quite faded begins to dissipate and he wraps his arms around her, breathing out deeply and closing his eyes.

 

He cannot sleep tonight, but he can keep vigil and that’s exactly what he’s going to do.

 

*-*-*

 

_She was sitting in front of Mommy, cowering behind the pillow she was hugging._

 

**_Phewsh ._ **

 

_Mommy spat on the ground and Claire whimpered._

 

_“Mo-mmy?” she whispered and she turned around, growling. Reaching out, she tore the portrait of Auntie Anna that was hanging on Claire’s wall and threw it on the ground, spitting on it again._

 

_“Traitors are hung,” she snapped, “They don't get their portraits hung.”_

 

 _Claire shivered, a small whine of fear escaping her lips and she sniffled. Tears filled her eyes - Mommy was mean, Mommy was scary, Mommy_ **_hurt-hurt-hurt-_ **

 

_“It’s alright, Claire,” Daddy pulled her close. It was warm, his arms so big and Claire buried her face into the crook of his neck._

 

_“Auntie Anna was a good person, Claire,” he murmured into her ear. “But…”_

 

 _“But what?” she asked. Daddy looked sad as he bent down to rest his forehead against hers and Claire whimpered - she didn't like Daddy sad. She leaned up and took his cheeks in both his hands as he often did when she was upset. "_ _Don't be sad, Daddy,” she whispered, patting his cheek. “I love you.”_

 

_“I love you too, Claire,” he said quietly, “So much.”_

 

_He bent down and dropped a kiss on her mouth, burying his face in her neck, rubbing his stubble against her. She squealed, struggling in his arms, laughing loudly. He mimicked growling at her, biting gently in her direction and she giggled happily, swatting at his face with small arms._

 

_“Daddy?” she whispered. “What was she like? Auntie Anna?”_

 

_Castiel fell silent, his lips pursed, blue eyes growing weary with exhaustion._

 

_“Daddy?” Her voice was almost a whimper and Castiel smiled sadly at her, kissing her cheek and brushing aside her long hair and tucking it behind her ear._

 

_“She… she was my best friend, Claire,” he said softly. “She and Uncle Gabe… they used to play with me.”_

 

_He pushed her back into the bed and Claire went willingly, snuggling below her covers as he tucked them tight around her. Fluffing up her pillows for her, he curled his large body around her and Claire sighed happily as she cuddled further into her Daddy’s warmth, the thud-thud of his heartbeat resounding in her ear._

 

_“You know your favorite lullabies?” Daddy’s voice still sounded tired, but his voice was fading away and she closed her eyes as she answered._

 

_“Yeah!” she cried. “Little child, little child-” she started humming one of the many songs Daddy sang to her and he grinned, joining in without hesitation._

 

_“Little child, won't you dance with me?” He nuzzled her neck and poked at her sides gently and she shrieked with laughter, curling into him further._

 

_“I’m soooo sad and looo-oonley!” They both dragged it out, resting their foreheads against one another, “Baby, take a chance with me!”_

 

_The song faded away into small, helpless chuckles and Daddy’s voice was also growing softer and softer, in the distance…_

 

_“Auntie Anna taught me those songs.”_

 

_“Do…” Claire whispered, the words stuck in her throat, “Do you love me as much as Auntie Anna? You miss her,” she murmured softly, biting her lip. Castiel smiled and booped his nose with hers and she pulled back, startled._

 

 _“But I have_ you _,” he pointed out and she sighed. “I will always miss Anna - and Gabe too - but Claire…? Never, ever doubt that you’re worth everything to me or that I am always going to be in your corner, okay?”_

 

_She nodded, holding her arms out for a hug. Castiel obliged, holding her close and nuzzling into her hair, kissing her lightly before pulling back._

 

**_“Little child… little child… little child, won't you dance with me? I’m so sad and lonely, baby won't you take a chance with me?”_ **

 

_Castiel sighed, sitting down on the bed next to her._

 

_“I am sorry, Claire-Bear,” he murmured, leaning over to wrap an arm around her bony shoulders. She leaned into him, resting her head against his chest and he sifted his hands through her long hair, rubbing at her scalp gently._

 

_“‘S no’ fair,” she mumbled into his shirt and felt the soft tremors from his chuckle rumble through his chest._

 

_“I know,” he said softly, “But Mommy and I are scheduled to meet with Uncle Luke and Uncle Raph today.”_

 

_Claire perked up at that._

 

_“Mommy too?” she asked, pulling back. Castiel nodded, tilting his head to one side. “Yes, Mommy too,” he answered._

 

_“How-how long will you be gone?” she whispered, her voice all too innocent and Daddy’s eyes narrowed at her suspiciously._

 

_“I shall return soon after lunch, I believe,” he told her, his voice a bit sharp. She grinned at him, plucking at a button on his shirt and he caught her small wrist in his bigger palms, pressing a soft kiss to her fingertips. She scrunched her nose at the slight prickle of his beard but looked up at him with a wide eyed look._

 

_“So ice cream!” She exclaimed and he chuckled, nodding._

 

_“Yes, Claire,” he said gravely, though his eyes were twinkling merrily, “I will return in time for our customary Saturday ice cream.”_

 

_“Will Mommy come back too?”_

 

_“I do not believe so,” he responded, “I believe her father is coming over. So unless you’re interested in spending time with your grandfather-”_

 

 _“No!” Claire’s voice was almost a shriek and the shudder that ran through her small form was very real. She pressed herself close to Daddy’s chest, wrapping her tiny arms around him as she shivered in fear._ _She didn't want to meet Granpa Azazel. He was big, scary and mean._

 

_“Shhh,” Castiel soothed her, pulling her close and rubbing her back tenderly, “It’s alright, Claire-Bear, I know you don't like him.”_

 

_“He’s scary,” she whispered and Castiel sighed, nodding._

 

_“I know, baby,” he murmured, “I promise, you won't have to spend time with him if you don't like it, okay?”_

 

_Claire nodded, still shuddering. “I love you Daddy,” she whispered, and he smiled._

 

**_Something shifted…_ **

 

_Claire wasn’t afraid of the dark or the small spaces, but she was definitely happy when the crawl space expanded into a proper tunnel that she could then stand up in. There was a slight coat of dust over the walls and she could see spiderwebs hanging over the ceiling. The air was a bit cold and she shivered, wrapping her arms around herself as she walked carefully into the passageway, following it as it curved down and down. She didn't know how long she’d been walking when she suddenly heard voices._

 

_“Lucifer, you cannot be serious.”_

 

_Daddy!_

 

_That was Daddy’s voice!_

 

_But he sounded angry._

 

_Daddy never yelled._

 

 _“Castiel, brother,” Uncle Luke sounded pacifying, like when Mommy was trying to get her to eat broccoli - Claire’s nose scrunched at the thought. No,_ thank _you; she wasn’t eating that stupid vegetable, no matter how many reasons Mommy came up with for them to be healthy._

 

_“You’re being emotional,” Lucifer’s voice turned icy, “This is a business, Castiel. And you cannot allow your feelings to interfere.”_

 

 _“Brother,” Daddy’s almost begging and Claire didn't_ _like it. “Selling our product across colleges and universities was one thing - you're asking me to sell to high school kids! They're_ children, _Lucifer!”_

 

_Claire heard a familiar snort then - Mommy._

 

_“Honestly, Clarence, did you really think that the kids aren’t already smokin’ our pot behind the bleachers?” Meg sounded amused. “It’s not like we’re doing anything that new.”_

 

_“How can you say that, Meg?” Daddy’s voice was shaking and Claire’s heart broke. She hated it when he became so sad._

 

 _“After Claire… how would you feel if it was_ our _daughter who was being sold to?”_

 

 _“Don’t bring Claire into this,” Meg snarled. “She has nothing to do with it. This is_ business, _Castiel.”_

 

 _“Meg is right,” Uncle Raph’s voice was calm, collected and Claire shuddered. Uncle Luke, Uncle Raph and Uncle Mike were scary._ _“You must learn to compartmentalize, brother,” he continued, “You cannot confuse one with the other. We do what we do - it is business. Claire, when the time is right, will take her rightful place by our side. She will join the family business and she will learn to do as we do.”_

 

_There was a moment of utter silence._

 

_“No.”_

 

_Daddy’s voice was calm and utterly flat. Claire shivered as she heard it - no matter what happened, he never sounded so robotic, as though he couldn’t feel anything._

 

_It scared her._

 

_“Excuse me?”_

 

 _“I said no,” Castiel’s voice was steady, but Claire heard the quiet undercurrent of anger. “Claire is going nowhere_ near  _this business.”_

 

_“Clarence, you can't be serious,” Meg snapped. “Claire is a Novak. This is what she is meant to do, where she’s meant to -”_

 

 _“No, Meg,” Castiel interrupted. “Claire will have_ nothing _to do with the Novak family business.”_ _His voice steadily rose in cadence until he was almost yelling. “She’s an innocent and I will not see her tarnished!”_

 

_“And what will you do to stop it, Castiel?” Uncle Luke’s voice was curious and Daddy fell silent. “Short of taking her away from here, there is little you can do to prevent it. Claire, as Meg so aptly pointed out, is a Novak. And given that none of us have any children, she’s the rightful heir to the estate itself.”_

 

 _“No,” Daddy’s voice was a broken whisper. “Fuck, no, Lucifer, brother...don't do this. She’s a child, they're_ all _just children-!”_

 

_“Claire is a Novak, she will take her rightful place when the time comes. And you will do well to accept the truth, Castiel. We are Novaks and this is what we do.”_

 

_“No,” Daddy growled, suddenly angry again, “I will die before I let Claire anywhere near this shithole.”_

 

_“Clarence, you can’t -” Mommy began, but Daddy cut in._

 

_“No,” he snarled, “Not now, not fucking ever. I’m leaving. Whatever you are planning, keep me and Claire out of it.”_

 

_There was the sound of a door being yanked open and then slamming shut and Claire knew Daddy had walked out in a rage._

 

_“Castiel is steadily becoming a problem,” Uncle Raph’s voice sounded cold and irritated._

 

_“He feels too much,” Meg muttered. Despite the exasperation in her tone, there was an undercurrent of affection there - as though she had grown fond of Castiel’s heart despite the fact that it interfered with their work._

 

_“He always has, Meg,” Lucifer sighed. “I fear Anna and Gabriel coddled him a bit too much as a child. And now we pay the price.”_

 

_“He will learn his place,” the voice was faint. “Meg, you… call for your father… arrange a…”_

 

_**Daddy-Daddy-Daddy-** _

 

_“Daddy?” Claire whispered and he was looking at her with glassy eyes._

 

_“Claire,” he sighed and without another word, he pulled her close._

 

_She curled into his arms, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Daddy was shaking, his arms tight around her - so tight that it almost hurt - but she pressed into him, trying to comfort him as best as she could._

 

 _“Claire,” he murmured, “Claire, baby… Claire…”_ _He kept muttering her name like it was some sort of benediction and she leaned back to place her palm on his cheek. It was wet and her eyes went wide - Daddy was crying?!_

 

_“Don't be sad, Daddy,” she had said it to him before but she repeated it now. “It’s okay, I love you.”_

 

 _“Claire,” his voice broke into a quiet sob and he nuzzled into her neck. “I love you, baby, I-I… I’m so sorry… I am so,_ so _sorry… I can’t even… you… Claire, I am sorry, so so_ sorry _,, I-”_

 

 _“I don't know how to protect you, Claire,” he muttered, tucking a strand of golden hair behind her ears. “You’re…_ shit _, I am just-”_

 

 _“Claire,” Castiel sighed, pulling her close. “Baby, you_ have _to promise me… promise you won't leave the suite when I tell you not to. Promise you will listen to me… Claire, I’m already… I don't know how to, god,_ promise _me, Claire, I can't keep you safe otherwise and_ fuck _-”_

 

_He sounded broken and tired and it wrenched at her three-year old heart. Sniffling and blinking against the sudden tears, she shook her head and pressed closer to him, crying into his shirt._

 

_“I promise, Daddy,” she whispered. “I promise.”_

 

_“God, Claire, I-I…” he was muttering incoherently into her hair, but Claire hugged him back, feeling something hot and wet drip into her neck - Daddy was crying too._

 

 _“_ Don't _go anywhere without me, Claire,” he whispered and she nodded. “I promise, Daddy,” she whispered back._

 

_**Daddy-Mommy, no, Mommy - Daddy -** _

 

_Mommy stood there, lips curved into a smirk and Claire huddled closer to Daddy, who picked her up and rubbed her back comfortingly._

 

_“Clarence,” she greeted stiffly. “Claire, honey, go to your room. I need to talk to your Daddy in private.”_

 

_“Mommy, I-” Claire started as Daddy set her down. Mommy turned around to glare at her and Claire subsided, nodding sullenly._

 

 _“_ Now _, Claire,” she said sternly. Claire sighed, looking up at Daddy who offered her a small nod and bent down._

 

_“Go on, baby,” he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. “I’ll come as soon as I can to tuck you in and read you a story, okay?”_

 

_“Can we read a Batman story?” she asked hopefully and Meg snorted while Castiel nodded, placing his hand on her head._

 

_“Of course, Claire,” he agreed, “Go get ready for bed and I’ll be in shortly.”_

 

_Casting one last, uncertain look at Mommy, Claire clambered out of the room, frowning as Mommy’s voice faded into the background._

 

_“Breaking gender stereotypes, Clarence, that’s….nice… you….”_

 

_“Lucifer…. Not happy… Raph either and -”_

 

_“Fuck, Clarence… wants to see… called for Father and....”_

 

_“Doesn’t matter… Meg… protect… Claire-innocent… do what...right…”_

 

_The door to her room opened softly and Daddy walked in, a frown still on his face._

 

_“Daddy?” she called and he looked up at her, quickly pulling his expression into a gently, apologetic smile._

 

_“Bedtime, Claire,” he murmured._

 

**_Claire closed her eyes -_ **

 

 _\- she jumped through the door, her heart thundering in excitement. There were stairs here too, only they led downstairs and Claire wondered where they went to. Without another thought, she stepped on to the first stair, following the winding passageway down and down and down._ **_Down the Rabbit Hole_** _, she thought to herself and giggled - Alice in Wonderland was something Daddy loved to read in funny voices._

 

_It turned suddenly narrow and the light was fading away - it became darker and darker, though Claire could still see if she squinted her eyes._

 

_The voices grew louder._

 

 _She dropped to her knees and crawled further into the tunnel that was growing steadily smaller. She shivered - she knew, suddenly, she_ knew _where she was._

 

 _A small whimper escaped her lips and tears filled her eyes -_ **_Daddy, where was Daddy? This… this was not real, Daddy-Daddy-Daddy-_ **

 

**_No-no-no-_ **

 

_A closet full of tools._

 

_Shovels and axes and daggers -_

 

_\-  all neatly stacked up next to one another, labelled and well maintained._

 

_It was an armory._

 

 _It was_ the _armory._

 

_Claire shivered._

 

_Guns._

 

_Pickaxes._

 

_Knives, ropes, leather restraints._

 

**_No-no-Daddy, please - no, no- Daddy, Daddy- Mommy’s here- no, no -_ **

 

**_Uncle Luke’s voice, calling her name._ **

 

_“For Claire, Meg,” he said. “I know you don't want to hurt him, but you must do it for your daughter.”_

 

_What didn't Mommy want to do? Why should she do it for her?_

 

 _Claire didn't want to know-_ **_this-this-Daddy, please, please Daddy, where are you-_ **

 

_“I won't let you down, sir.”_

 

_There was the sound of a sudden whimper, accompanied by the soft hiss and a loud, metallic screech-screech. She knew what she was going to see… her heart was racing, but Claire still tiptoed to the door of the closet, looking through the small peephole._

 

_Mommy, standing there facing away from the closet... only her back was visible. In front of her - a table…_

 

_Silver and metallic._

 

_Almost pretty._

 

_Leather straps and chains hanging off the side._

 

_Uncle Luke was standing tall, holding a knife in one hand and a funny looking scissors in another. The scissors were curved at the edges and in between the two criss-cross blades was a round plate that had something carved on to it._

 

_Claire was too far away to see what the carving was._

 

_Uncle Luke held the funny scissors over a big candle that was sitting at the edge of the metal table._

 

**_Daddy-Daddy-Daddy-please-please-no-no-Daddy-MommyandUncleLuke-please-_ **

 

_A low, rough cough came from the table._

 

**_Circkle. Crackle._ **

 

_A red hot glow over the carving on the plate that was held over the flame._

 

**_Hiss, piss, siss…_ **

 

_Claire swallowed, her throat closing in on itself._

 

_“Hang… there… Cla-”_

 

**_Mommy’s voice._ **

 

_A loud, raw-throated yell suddenly broke the silence and Claire’s eyes filled with tears. Despite herself, she peeked out once more._

 

**_Mommy, away from the table._ **

 

_She saw feet hanging off the side of the metal surface. The feet thrashed and strained against the leather ropes that tied them down to the table._

 

_The yelling was loud, pained and it hurt her ears. She closed her hands over them, trying to drown out the cries, watching in a detached manner as Uncle Luke pulled back and then held the funny scissors over the candle again, heating up the round plate._

 

**_It’s Daddy-Mommy-stop-please-Daddy, no-please Uncle Luke-_ **

 

 _Uncle Luke was_ burning _whoever was trapped on the table._

 

_Uncle Luke moved back._

 

_Mommy took his place._

 

_“Come, Father,” she said._

 

**_No, no, this couldn't, he couldn't -_ **

 

_“Ah, Castiel, such a good boy, you are.”_

 

_Claire’s tummy now knotted painfully, her breath coming out in pants._

 

**_Daddy._ **

 

**_Daddy was here._ **

 

**Daddy.**

 

_She opened her mouth to call out to him, but no sound came out -_

 

_Granpa Azazel dumped a huge bucket of ice onto Daddy’s naked form, even as Mommy held a knife to his side. The knife dripped red and Claire knew what it was._

 

_Blood._

 

Daddy’s _blood._

 

**_No, this, no, Daddy -_ **

 

_She needed -_

 

**_Daddy-Daddy couldn't be hurt, he-_ **

 

_She opened her mouth again and tried to scream -_

 

\- only to wake up shrieking as she throws her arms above her head, sobbing loudly. Daddy is _hurt_ , Daddy is yelling in pain and he’s being _cut_ and Mommy’s being mean and Uncle Luke and Granpa Azazel are _hurting_ him and _why_ won't her voice _work_ ? If she could only call out to them, ask them to _stop_ hurting Daddy, Daddy-Daddy- _Daddy-_

 

“Claire!”

 

Daddy is still yelling and he’s calling - calling for her and her voice won't work and she shrieks again, mouth forming useless words, but nothing comes out, _nothing, Daddy -_

 

“Claire, sweetheart, look at me, _look_ at me, Claire -”

 

Daddy’s voice is frantic, pleading and Claire opens her eyes slowly, tears streaking out of them. Her tummy hurts, her chest is too tight, and she can't breathe, she can't, it hurts, it _hurts_ -

 

“Claire, breathe,” Daddy says, “Breathe, baby.. Just listen to the sound of my voice, alright? It’s alright, we are alright and you aren't there anymore. You’re here with me, with Em, we’re all okay…”

 

Her hands are trembling and she can't see anything - she feels dizzy and her head feels heavy and she presses her fingers to her throat because her voice is _still_ gone and she _still_ can't speak, and what is this stupid wetness that covers her face and neck?

 

“Claire, it’s alright,” Daddy’s voice goes softer, more hesitant and she gulps, trying to breathe, trying to force the oxygen into her lungs.

 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he whispers, “Just breathe… in and out, come now… that’s a good girl, _breathe_ , Claire…”

 

A long, terrifying moment passes and Claire hovers between memory and reality, shivering.

 

_“Close your eyes, have no fear…”_

 

The soft humming of her Daddy’s voice is familiar, rough and soothing. It’s the same song he sang to her that night, and it reaches her now like it did then.

 

_“The monster’s gone, he’s on the run, and your Daddy’s here…”_

 

Claire whimpers quietly, but the memory is fading and she opens her eyes to see Daddy sitting in front of her, watching her intently, head tilted to the side even as he hums the song.

 

“ _Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful… beautiful_ **_girl_ ** _,_ ” he smiles softly at her and Claire cries out loud, sobbing in relief and delight and it hurts, it still _hurts_ , because her voice is gone, but Daddy’s here, and the monsters are going away -

 

\- she lunges at him, wrapping her arms and legs in a tangled mess around his bigger, muscled form, shaking and trembling. Castiel bunches his arms around her just as tightly, rubbing her back and holding her close even as she buries her face in his old shirt. He doesn't stop humming the song, even when his voice breaks, even when she knows he is _also_ crying - she can feel his tears, hot and wet, seep into her long sweat-matted hair.

 

 _“Before you go to sleep, say a little prayer…”_ his voice is a half-sob, half-laugh and it’s a strangled sound that is a little too similar to the sounds from her nightmare.

 

But Daddy _won't_ let her go back there - he brought her out, he got out of the Novak family and he will never, _ever_ let them hurt her or Emma, ever again.

 

So he pulls back the slightest bit, resting his forehead against hers as he wipes the tears away with the pad of his thumb, singing the next line softly, as though to tell her that it’s all okay.

 

 _“Every day, in every way, it’s getting better and better…”_ he hums, cupping her face with his hands. Claire shudders, pressing herself closer to him, trying to lose herself in the warmth and affection he offers.

 

 _“Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful...beautiful_ **_girl_  **,” he runs his hands through her hair, rubbing her scalp to soothe her and she sighs, the last vestiges of the nightmare fading away, leaving her with a bone-deep weariness that belonged on a much, much older person.

 

Daddy’s here, Daddy’s _okay_.

 

She’s safe.

 

It isn't long before she slips into a deep sleep, this time without nightmares.

 

*-*-*

 

“Da-ddy?”

 

Emma’s voice startles him and Castiel turns around to see the three-year old standing at the entrance of Claire’s room, rubbing her eyes and clutching at her stuffed puppy. His heart aches at the sweet picture she paints - her cheeks are rosy from sleep and her hair is all disheveled, just like Claire’s had been a few minutes ago.

 

But Claire’s hair wasn’t just messy - it was sweat-matted and tangled from thrashing about in the throes of a nightmare.

 

Even if he _expected_ the nightmare when he slipped in behind her, it still shakes him up, makes his blood boil.

 

His five-year old daughter shouldn't have to dream about watching him getting tortured by his own girlfriend and his brother. But short of feeling helpless and cursing, there’s nothing he can do to stop it. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, heart raging at his own fucking _stupidity_ and his dumb belief in his family.

 

“What are you doing up so late, Em?” he asks softly; Claire has just slipped back into sleep and he really doesn't want to wake her. She’s exhausted, both from the nightmare and the adventure that Halloween night turned out to be and he has a feeling she’s going to be quite clingy for the next few days, given the frightening events of tonight.

 

Or maybe that's just him.

 

Finding that they were _gone_ was the _worst_ moment of his life, bar none so far. And given that he’s been tortured, cut into, branded with hot irons - that’s saying something.

 

In that singular moment, Castiel Novak lost everything he held dear; fear clogged his throat and an icy chill ran through his veins as he ran down the streets of Sioux Falls, heart hammering and every instinct _screaming_ at him to find his daughters, to keep them safe.

 

Losing them…

 

He knows he won't be able to survive that.

 

“Couldn’ sleep,” Emma murmurs, ambling into the room and clambering on to the bed next to Claire. With a soft sigh, she curls up next to her sister, who instinctively turns around to wrap her bony arms around Emma’s smaller frame, burying her face into the three-year old’s neck and huffing lightly. Emma cuddles further into Claire’s embrace, sighing quietly and closing her eyes.

 

“Claire woke you up, didn't she?” Castiel mutters and Emma nods tiredly, already drifting off, the stuffed puppy falling off the bed, forgotten in favor of cuddling her big sister instead.

 

Castiel’s heart aches - _god_ , his girls are _children_ , how did it come to this?

 

Without another word, he curls around them, bracketing their tiny forms within his own bigger body, as if to shield them from it all, to keep them safe and with him.

 

Even now, he feels utterly detached from his body, mind still thrumming with the fear of losing them, of them going missing. Claire was bullied tonight - _bullied_ , and it sends a low spike of hot rage coursing through his veins.

 

Thank god for Winchester.

 

The man, for all that Castiel last saw him get beat up in an alley by drug dealers, saved his daughter and he will never be able to say how much that means to him.

 

Missouri was right - he doesn't regret that he saved the man’s life. And he’s actually ready to help the man’s younger brother get settled into Sioux Falls High as best as he can; it’s the best he can do for the man who helped Claire.

 

Dean Winchester.

 

 _The name suits him,_ Castiel thinks. It’s strong and powerful, just like the man himself, though he turned out to be quite the surprise, knowing sign language and coming to a stranger’s rescue.

 

Then again, Castiel apparently isn't all that different - he did the same to him a few days ago, after all.

 

Claire sighs softly in her sleep, still frowning lightly. Castiel reaches over to rub a soothing hand down the side of her face and the frown vanishes, turning into a peaceful look of contentment and Castiel sighs himself. He lets the tension seep out of his body, lets the soft warmth of his daughters and the little-girl smell settle into his bones, each muscle slowly going loose-limbed.

 

 _Yes_ , he thinks sleepily, _saving that man in the alley wasn't such a bad idea after all._

 

*-*-*

 

Dean doesn't want to go home. Fuck, he'd rather stay on the road, sleep in the park or in his baby...  It's not like he hasn't done it before.

 

He doesn't want to go home and face Sam.

 

Or dad.

 

Or the shitty fact that apparently he's an abusive ass clown who lashes out and hits the child he's supposed to protect and love. In the deepest, darkest corners of his mind, Dean's always considered himself just a teeny,  _tiny_ smidgen better than Dad.

 

Dad tried, he's _always_ tried and Dean will forgive everything – every _single_ mistake he's made - because he understands. He knows dad's pain, dad's anguish without mom. He lives it each day. He misses Mom like an amputee misses his lost limb and he knows – _knows_ – that if she were still alive, their lives would be the stuff of dreams.

 

Mom was the love of Dad’s life. When she died, he was lost.

 

Dean _understands_.

 

But the minute Dad walked out on them in the face of Sam’s trauma and mutism, a part of Dean broke.

 

The part of Dean that always, always believed that Dad was doing the best he could, the little boy who remembered what it was like when mom was alive and dad was _Daddy_ and came home to throw around that baseball with Dean... That part was lost – forever.

 

Because Dean can forgive dad anything does to _him_. He can forgive the forgotten or missed birthdays, he can forget the ignored holidays and he can even forgive dad his many drinking binges and the occasional violent outburst. It’s not that he isn’t angry, but he’s learned to look beyond that anger, because Dad lost Mom and there’s nothing Dean can do to fix _that_ , especially when he looks exactly like her.

 

He _can't_ forgive the hurt look on Sam's face when the kid realized dad just signed him away like he was baggage. He can't forgive each and every time that dad didn’t show up for Christmas or forgot to call on _Sam’s_ birthdays, can't forgive the fact that Sam is _good_ , better than all of them, and dad still doesn't see that.

 

Now, apparently, he's no better.

 

The bitterness wells up within his chest so fast, Dean can taste it. It tastes like piss and acid and bile and all things vile, and he has to force himself to breathe as he lingers in the street, still rooted to the spot where Newman and his girls were.

 

He doesn't wanna go home.

 

Which is why Owen marching down the street with his mother behind him is a welcome sight indeed.

 

“Dean!” the seven-year old rushes to Dean and tugs on his pants and with a sigh, he bends down and ruffles his hair. Owen looks around furtively, brows furrowed, no doubt looking for Claire.

 

“Where’s Claire?” he asks and Dean shrugs.

 

“Her dad wasn’t too far away,” he tells the kid, whose expression turns into a slight pout.

 

“But I brought Mom,” he mutters sulkily, “I wanted to help her find him.”

 

He rocks back on his heels as Jody joins them with a tired smile for Dean, who snorts at the kid’s expression. Clearly, Owen has been spending too much time with the Sheriff – he wants to be just like her.

 

Dean knows the feeling; he used to feel the same about his Mom.

 

“Hey you,” Jody greets him with a friendly pat on his back.

 

“Hi Jody,” he murmurs, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

 

“Claire’s dad came by, Mom,” Owen jumps in, still wanting to impress his mother. Jody chuckles, rubbing her thumb down the length of his cheek before offering him a nod.

 

“I can see that,” she responds, her eyes twinkling fondly. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

 

Owen deflates. “Yeah, I guess,” he mutters, “But _I_ wanted to help.”

 

Jody kisses his forehead. “And I’m proud of you for it.”

 

Dean can only watch as the kid hugs her, burying his face in her stomach. His heart is heavy with the old ache of missing Mom and he squishes it down ruthlessly, blinking away the tears and trying to ignore the growing lump in his throat. He’s been doing that a lot this evening, he thinks.

 

Jody lets go of her son and tilts her head at him, gesturing quietly to the side. Bending down, she ruffles Owen’s hair and rubs the back of his neck.

 

“Why don’t you get home?” she tells him quietly. “Go get all your candy sorted out with Mama. I have to talk to Dean for a minute.”

 

Dean frowns as Owen nods and runs off, waving at the twenty-one year old before he vanishes up the street again. Jody straightens up and turns to him, a serious expression on her face.

 

“We need to talk,” there is a hint of something in her voice; it makes the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck prickle.

 

“Yeah, I heard,” he grunts, gesturing in the direction that the kid disappeared. “What’s goin’ on?”

 

All of the self-recrimination, the doubt and the anxiety from the evening fly out the window at her next words.

 

“Gordon Walker has been murdered.”

 

Fucking hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER THOUGHTS - 
> 
> And we have plot! I'm not too sure about this one; as much I enjoyed the previous, this one fought with me just as hard. I had to throw out a huge chunk and rewrite it because it seemed too coherent for a 3 year old's memories and I wanted it to be structured as a nightmare as well, so if it feels fractured or dissonant, that's how it's supposed to be! Lemme know if I achieved that goal, hope everyone is enjoying it so far!
> 
> Thanks to all commenting and reading, I'll see y'all in two weeks! :)


	9. The Past Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam waits up for his brother, but it doesn't quite go the way he'd want it to. Dean struggles with an apology he doesn't know how to give. MAJOR angst, bring your tissues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to my beta, who read through this even in the middle of life-crap and kicked my ass into gear! You da bestu, Bee! 
> 
> Also, all my descriptions and writings with regard to addiction comes entirely secondhand; I have zero experience with this, so if I got anything wrong, do let me know! 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS - Flashbacks, panic attacks, drug addiction and rehab, graphic recollections of death and blood, underage sex, mentions of torture and abuse

**Chapter 8 - The Past Echoes**

 

Dean’s been in the Sheriff’s station more times than he can count; he wasn’t exactly a model teenager back in the day and Jody’s been lookin’ out for him and Sam for as long back as he can remember, since the two of them were snot-nosed kids.

 

And it’s not like he’s not been on this side of the interrogation table before either; shoplifting was a thing back when he was a kid and he had to make sure Sam had dinner to eat, even if it was only a couple Granola bars. After that, it was getting hauled in for solicitation and he remembers clearly Jody sitting across this very table and asking him gently if he needed help, if Dad was abusing them and Dean shut her down right the fuck there.

 

Because yeah, Dad was an asshole and a drunk, but he sure as _hell_ wasn’t abusive. He never hit them, never hurt them and he took off when he realized he _hurt_ Sam, even if inadvertently… because he signed Sam over to Dean when he realized he was a shit father to him.

 

_But abuse isn’t just physical, Dean!_

 

Sam’s voice is a whisper that echoes in his ears; Sam, whom  _he’s_ hit. No, Dad wasn’t the abuser - _Dean_ is.  _He_ thrashed his brother into the ground earlier today, and now, he’s sitting across Jody in the interrogation room, back here, with the Sheriff’s features arranged into the exact expression of pity and sympathy and exasperated fondness as the last time.

 

It’s divine justice, almost… fuck, he’s _hurt_ Sam, _he_ deserves this, deserves to be chained because he hurt his baby brother. The self-recrimination from earlier is beating through his veins, his blood pounding in his head, his heart shrinking and expanding and shrinking, and fuck, all he wants is to beg Sammy’s forgiveness and ask Dad to come home.

 

He’s just tired as he offers Jody a smirk. This is almost an exact replay of the last time, when she was telling him that he had _options_ , that he didn’t _need_ to put up with John’s shit, that he could tell her and she’d help him.  

 

Yeah, like _fuck_ he had options… forget the fact that he wasn’t gonna betray Dad by telling people how he behaved, he couldn't take the risk of being separated from Sam. Foster homes were bitches, and there was no way he was lettin’ his baby brother get groped by some douche for the state-sponsored cash.

 

So he’d grinned then, pretended he was fine, Sam was fine and Dad was Father of the Year. Jody sighed, rubbed her nose tiredly and kicked him out, none of the charges sticking without any evidence that wasn’t circumstantial.

 

And yet… yet, this feels different. It _is_ different, because this time… this time, it’s not just Dad that he has to defend.

 

Gordon is dead.

 

 _Dead_.

 

Which means that _Sammy_ is back on the hook; did the son of a bitch tell Crowley to back off? Did he tell him that Dean’s paid him back, that Dean doesn’t owe ‘em any more dough? Did Crowley send him in the first place?

 

Dean’s not stupid; if Jody is interrogating him, then she suspects that he’s had something to do with his death.

 

“So,” she says, with a raised eyebrow. “Are we gonna do this? Or you gonna just come right out and tell me what the hell happened between you and Gordon?”

 

Dean offers her a shrug, lips curving into a sardonic smile. “We didn't do the dirty, if that’s what you’re askin’,” he drawls, “Repressed douchebags aren’t my forte, you know that.”

 

Jody sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose with the tips of her fingers, the sight an exact replay of the previous time she was interrogating him. “Dean,” she sighs, “I’m tired as hell. It’s Halloween, and instead of spending it with my wife and son, I’m here, interrogating you of all people. Do you really wanna do this?”

 

A flash of guilt churns his belly, but Dean swallows it down; he’s not sure what Jody knows or doesn’t know. He could’ve gone to her the first time Crowley came over, he could’ve asked for help.But Jody is a single woman; for all that she’s not the sort to back down, Crowley is a powerful fucking asshole. And Dean knows - _knows_ \- that if he went to her, if he’d filed an official report against the businessman, it wasn’t just Sam’s rehab in danger. He’s not sure Crowley wouldn't have taken Jody out too. Or Bobby, or Ellen or Jo.

 

It’s why he kept his trap shut before, it’s why he’s being cautious now.

 

“I ain’t doin’ anythin’, Jody,” he says, “ _You’re_ the one with questions, not me.”

 

She glares at him, plopping down on to the seat in front of him.

 

“An anonymous caller,” she answers, “tipped me off to the location of Walker’s body earlier on today. He was stabbed, multiple times, until he bled out. There are scuff marks and bruising to indicate that he was in a fight, but here’s the thing - some of those bruises are _days_ old.”

 

Dean raises an eyebrow right back at her, even though his heart sinks. _She knows_ , he realizes, knows that he and Gordon fought behind The Roadhouse - and if she knows that, then it’s not gonna take long to make the jump to why they were fighting and Sam’s addiction.

 

Jody’s not slow, never has been. She’s been after Gordon’s ass for ages.

 

“So he was in a fight,” he’s not gonna admit to anything openly, “Dude’s got a talent for pissing people off.”

 

Jody leans in, “The question is, did he piss _you_ off?”

 

Dean shrugs again, “He ticked me off, sure,” he replies, “but if you’re askin’ me if I ganked him? Then that’s a no.”

 

Jody moves back, reclining against her chair. “That’s funny,” she says pointedly, “Cuz I have witness statements that have the two of you havin’ it out behind The Roadhouse a week ago. I’m sure the security cam footage will show me the same thing when I get my hands on it.”

 

Dean doesn’t say anything more, simply tensing up and waiting for an actual question he can give a non-answer to. He knows what she’s getting at; Jody pushed him just as hard after they found Sam’s prone form, OD’d on drugs behind the bleachers. He refused to give up Crowley then and he won't do so now either.

 

“Dean,” she murmurs, “I wanna _help_. But I can't if you won’t tell me -”

 

“I didn't kill him, Jody,” he cuts in.

 

She stands up, frustrated. “I _know_ you didn't,” she snaps, “Because I know _you_. But I also know you’d do anything to keep Sam safe, so stow the crap Dean, and cop to it. Why the hell were you brawling with Gordon Walker? Did he ask for more money?” she bangs her fists on the table, glaring down at him. He didn't tell her that Sam’s product came from Gordon; he hadn’t needed to.

 

“Did he threaten Sam? What did he want?”

 

Fuck, he’s gonna have to tell her _something_ , or she won't let this go.

 

“I-” he clears his throat, “It had nothing to do with Sam’s addiction, Jody.”

 

“Bullshit!” she snaps, “I’m not an idiot, Dean, don’t treat me like one! Tell me the damned truth.”

 

“It wasn’t,” he insists, throwing in as much conviction into his voice as he can. He’s a good actor and if there’s one thing he knows, it’s how to lie and pretend - he’s had plenty of practice.

 

“Then what?” she demands, “Why was Gordon after your ass?”

 

“He- uh,” shit he has to think fast, “It was money, but not like that… he-uh… he wanted my cash. Demanded that I hand over my wallet when he saw that I was drunk off my ass and couldn't defend myself.”

 

Jody’s features arrange themselves into an expression of skepticism. “So it was a robbery?” she asks suspiciously.

 

“Yes!” he exclaims hastily, “Pulled a knife on me and everything… wanted all the cash I had, even had a couple cronies hold me down while he sifted through my pockets.”

 

Too late, he realizes what he just let out.

 

“Cronies?” dark brows furrow in question, “If you were ‘drunk off your ass’ and held down, how the heck did you get out?”

 

Fuck it all. He’s tired, freaked and worried. If he’s slippin’... Sam. _Sammy._

 

God, he wants to crawl into bed and just _forget_ , for just a little while.

 

“Jody,” he begins tiredly, “I just-”

 

“Cut the shit, Dean,” she interrupts, “And just tell me the fucking truth. It’s not gonna be hard to get the security cam footage and you know it.”

 

He sighs, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands. “I left,” he says gruffly, “drunk off my ass. I was gonna walk home when Gordon and his lackeys caught me. He demanded my wallet, I refused, they held me down and were throwin’ punches when I tried to get out.”

 

“And how’d you escape?”

 

“Newman,” it slips out before Dean can help it; fuck, he’s tired, but if he needs to throw this guy under the bus, then he’s gonna do it. Newman’s literally a new man - he knows shit about Sam’s history or who Gordon is. All he knows is that Dean was getting attacked behind the bar - his story will corroborate Dean’s, he’s sure. Which means that they’re off the hook.

 

Mentally apologizing to the guy and to the two little girls he seems to be raising alone, Dean tells Jody about him. “Dude’s some sort of martial artist,” he supplies. “He apparently saw me get beat up and jumped in; decent sort of guy, just got Gordon off of me and kicked ass.”

 

“Newman,” she repeats, her voice dubious. “Newman who?”

 

“The kid Owen ran to get you for?” Dean says. “Her dad? Just moved into town?”

 

“Hang on,” she frowns, “There’s a Newman in Donna’s class, I’m pretty sure that’s who Owen was… oh hell.”

 

She sighs, sudden realization dawning on her as she turns back to him. “Casper Newman?” she asks, though her tone already tells him she knows as Dean offers her a nod. “Fuck,” she mutters, “Great, a high school teacher too.”

 

Dean stiffens, “High school?” he asks and she offers him a cursory nod.

 

“Just started at Sioux Falls High,” she replies. “Linda mentioned him in passing, and Donna’s met him. His kid, Claire…? She’s selectively mute, communicates only by sign language, so he met with her before the girls started school.”

 

“Yeah, I met ‘em earlier tonight,” he says gruffly and Jody’s eyes soften in understanding. It isn't for nothing that Dean counts her as family; Donna was one of the first people who taught him how to sign - she was instrumental in getting Sam to speak again and he doesn’t think he can ever quite thank them for it.

 

“Yeah,” she mutters, “But Newman…” she trails off, expression turning thoughtful. “You said he helped you fight the goons off?”

 

Dean nods, “Yeah,” he confirms. “Good samaritan, I guess, flying in like a knight in shinin’ armor. Yummy lookin’ too.” He offers her a saucy grin and she rolls her eyes.

 

“You’re an idiot, Dean,” she snaps. “This is why the police exist; you’re in trouble, you fuckin’ call _911_. There’s a reason that’s the first thing you teach your kids.”

 

“Not used to askin’ for help, Jody,” he says stiffly, “And I was fine. We fought ‘em off and Newman took me home and that was it.”

 

“Dean-”

 

“It was the night before Sammy came home,” he cuts her off. He doesn’t look at her, but he knows her expression has softened again, the mere mention of Sam’s rehab and addiction enough to shut her up.

 

He’s not above using it - he’s a bastard, after all.

 

Jody sighs, sinking into the seat before him again. “Fine,” she mutters, “You’re determined to make my job harder, aren’t you?”

 

He smirks again and shakes his head, “Expect anything different from me, Sheriff?”

 

“This isn't a joke, Dean,” she warns, “There was a _murder._  I’m not gonna back off. If you’re not tellin’ me anything…” She doesn’t complete her sentence, but he can hear the warning. Jody’s never been one to pull punches; she’s gonna go lookin’ for Gordon’s killer and if that means she has to dig into Dean, Sam and the rest of them, she’ll do it. It’s her job and she’s good at it.

 

But then, Dean’s a master at hiding shit, always has been.

 

So he slaps a grin on to his face and raises an eyebrow at her in response. “We done here, Jody?” he demands and she just sighs.

 

“Yeah,” she answers tiredly, “We’re done. For now.”

 

*-*-*

 

Tick. Tock.

 

_Tick._

 

_Tock._

 

Tick _-tock_ \- _tick_ -tock- _tick_ -

 

Sam wants to throw the glass he’s holding in his hand at the clock on the wall. It’s mocking him, he knows - Dean’s gone, he’s _been_ gone for hours and it’s almost ten p.m, and his big brother is still not back and fuck, all it would take is a single shot, a single needle or a patch and Sam could forget that look on his face - that _look_ -

 

Breathing deeply through his nose, the younger Winchester jumps up, pacing the floor of the living room up and down. He’s been doing this circuit constantly in the past three hours or so, waiting for Dean to come back, but his elder brother has vanished and the need _burns_ , thrums within his veins and he’s struggling.

 

He knew it was going to be hard… he didn't realize just _how_ hard it would be.

 

Inside the rehab centre, the only thing he fought was the addiction. It was a beast, a fucking monster that he struggled with daily to get a grip on. But he _did_ it, day by day, hour by hour. Out here is a different story… out here, there are feelings - of guilt, of anger, of hate and pain and so _much_ bitterness that it washes everything else away… inside, he could pull a Dean and pretend none of that was real, nothing was real except his fight and his struggle. Out here, he has to face the fact that Dean’s literally killing himself to keep Sam going and there is nothing he can do about it.

 

Out here, he has what Andrea would call his stressors.

 

His brother and asshole absentee father make him wanna do drugs. Go figure - how fucked up is his life?

 

And if he had to tell Dean that… he knows, _knows_ with absolute certainty, that Dean would take it the wrong way… his big brother would perceive it as his personal failing that Sam wants to get high - he would think it was _his_ fault for unloading too much on him, expecting too much out of him, for not being the perfect replacement for Mom and Dad.

 

Dean doesn't understand that it’s not his _love_ , but the _guilt_ that drove Sam away from him and into the drugs. He loves his brother so fucking much, but he can't do a single damn thing in return for everything he’s ever done for him… giving up college, working his ass off, fighting _Dad_ -

 

\- Dad… who abandoned him, who left everything behind because he’s an asshole and a coward and it’s _Dean_ who’s stepped up, who’s always been Dad to Sam because _Dad_ is a jackass and -

 

\- Sam just wants to _forget_.

 

Tick- _tock_ \- _ti_ ck-to _ck_ -

 

Tick-

 

_Tock-_

 

Sam growls, raising the glass in his hand, ready to throw it at the damn thing. Fuck, he just wants quiet, for the thoughts in his head to go away- to-leave-him- _alone_ \- quiet- _quiet_ -quiet- _please-_

 

He freezes as the stupid gongs go off, rapidly in succession for ten times, bonging again and again.

 

It’s ten p.m.

 

Dean _still_ isn't home.

 

And that’s the clock that _Jo_ picked up, back when Bill was still alive, back when Sam didn't carry the guilt of killing her dad, when Dad was still an asshole but around at least, when Dad didn't run because of Sam.

 

He can't destroy one of the last memories they have of Bill Harvelle.

 

His breath is coming in pants and his vision is shortening and Sam flops to the couch, closing his eyes and curling in on himself.

 

The addiction, the poison he’s been free of for the past six months, calls, beckons - he can forget, he can sleep, he can rest and let the demons go just for one night- for _one_ night -

 

He can control the urge, he can. He will.

 

For Dean… he will, dammit, he _will_.

 

Putting his head between his knees, he breathes in deeply to stave off the mini panic attack that’s making his head spin. Andrea taught him how to handle himself the first time he had it and he’s become something of an expert and just breathing through it.

 

A laugh bubbles in his throat as he finally opens his eyes - it burns acrid as it comes to his tongue and he wipes away the few tears that have gathered in his eyes. His chest is still tight and his hands are still shaking, so he sets the glass down.

 

Nervous energy makes him jump off the couch and he resumes his pacing. He walks up and down the room, waiting for Dean to show, waiting for...for something, _anything_ that will stop that burning need. He’s getting through it, forcing in breath after breath, counting each one.

 

One.

 

In…

 

 _Two_.

 

Out…

 

Three.

 

_In…_

 

_Four._

 

Out…

 

Each breath is another success, because each count means it is one more breath that he has avoided it, so he counts - counts with the _ticking_ and the _tocking_ of the clock, because Andrea told him to turn his stressors into motivators and fuck if he will fail Dean again.

 

So he counts.

 

Six…

 

_In-out-_

 

Seven…

 

Out-in- _out_ -in-

 

He doesn't know how long he walks and counts and breathes, but gradually, the need fades to a low, simmering burn in his belly. It’s still there, ready and raring to go the moment he will let go of it, but he thinks he can focus on something other than just the utter bliss of silence that comes with the high now.

 

But he still needs a distraction, something to take the edge off… he won't go to bed before Dean comes home, won't give his big brother the chance to bury this deep like he does anything to do with his emotions.

 

He _needs_ Dean to see that Dad’s an asshole; needs his brother to stop giving and giving and _giving_ , because Dad will just _keep_ taking until there’s nothing left of his son until an empty black hole. Dean’s already given up so much - college and a life and he’s killing himself to put Sam through school and rehab and he can't  - _won't_ \- let Dad make demands of him when he walked out.

 

Put it like that, it makes him sound like a jackass; it’s not that Sam wants Dean to work only for him or that he won't share Dean with Dad. It’s just that Dad doesn't deserve a single shit that Dean can give him; Sam doesn't deserve it either, but he’s long since accepted that Dean will never stop caring for him, just like he will never admit that Dad’s a monumental bastard.

 

But it doesn't mean Sam won't try to make him see the truth. It doesn’t mean that he can’t try to right his own wrongs at least, try to be there for his brother when no one else is.

 

He walks into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. Sometimes, something sweet can take the edge off; Andrea had offered him a number of studies which debated the use of sugar in drug rehab, but whether he’s eating straight up sugar or consuming some kind of refined sugar in fruit, he can’t deny the way it soothes his craving. He pulls out an apple, not really hungry but restless and needing something the take the edge off, and grabs some cheese.

 

The motion of slicing the apples is more soothing than it ought to be; a part of Sam worries at how much _steadier_ is hand is now, holding a sharp knife so powerfully, vision focused on the apple before him. For a moment, he closes his eyes and the crimson color of the fruit’s skin blurs into the image of Bill’s broken body, lying on the wet ground, the Impala wrapped around a tree as Dad slurred drunkenly into the phone with a screaming Sam.

 

He didn't see ever get to see Bill’s prone form, but the image - a memory burned into his mind not as a picture but as the sickening, loud _crash_ of their car crunching into a tree, of the _pelting_ rain and of Dad’s loud _yell_ before and after the crash -

 

**_Sam, I’m driving, your brother can go to the PTA fo- fuuuuckkk!!_ **

 

The _creeeeech_ of the tires squealing…

 

The _whooooooosh_ of the wind whistling…

 

A terrifying _crunch._

 

**_“DAD!”_ **

 

He’d yelled and yelled and _yelled_ ; Dad slurred back, but there was no other sound, until -

 

**_Bill’s dead._ **

 

And the image - of his broken, mangled body - grew in Sam’s head as Dad struggled, ordered him to call 911. He’d done it on autopilot, informing the woman on the other end that there was an accident, blanking out, the image - that image of blood, bone and utter _redness_ and crimson and ruby and so much _anger_ \- growing bigger and bigger and _bigger_ until he blacked out.

 

A part of him was morbidly fascinated by the redness of the blood; maybe that was why he fell so quickly for Ruby.

 

Lips curling into a sardonic smile, Sam sighs, pushing the image away and chopping the apple up quickly. He doesn’t let himself linger, doesn’t let himself think - if he does, he’s going to remember the look on Dean’s face when his brother realized he wasn't going to speak anymore, and he really doesn’t think he has the energy to remember that today.

 

Dean’s done _so_ much for him, Sam’s biggest sin is letting him down every _single_ fucking time.

 

So tonight, he’s _not_ going to let the idiot run away; he’s going to sit him down and tell him  that Dad’s an asshole, that Dean deserves better. He’s going apologize to his brother, say sorry and tell him _how_ much he loves him, because Dean… Dean is his _everything_ now. And Dean has a right to a live a life beyond Sam, beyond Dad, because Dean is _good_ and _fuck_ if Sam won’t get his brother to see that.

 

Mumbling under his breath, he cuts out the cheese and grabs a piece, plopping it into his mouth with a slice of the apple. _Green apples taste better with Camembert,_ he muses, but the red ones help with his craving, and so he chomps down on them, chewing carefully, counting each time he chews and syncing it with every breath he takes.

 

With another sigh, he brings the plate with him back into the living room, propping himself up on the couch, yanking the throw blanket over his lanky frame in an attempt to get more comfortable. The house is getting colder and he’s going to have to get Dean to check the thermostat; with the end of fall so close by, winter’ll be here soon and Sioux Falls is not kind to those without warmth.

 

The Halloween festivities seem to be dying down outside; their neighborhood is in a relatively calmer part of town, with not many teenagers around, so the parties are not a problem. Sam didn't say anything earlier on the in evening, when Dean seemed to have forgotten the occasion altogether; it wasn’t that he didn’t want to celebrate, just that he didn’t really want to remember where he’d been last time this year.

 

Ruby had stuck a pair of devil’s horns on his head and dragged him to Brady’s party. Dean protested, but Sam got his way. It wasn’t the party he remembered though; it was sex and the _high_ , the burn of the drug as it made its way into his veins and the searing _hot_ wetness of Ruby’s body as she ripped his shirt off and rode his cock on Brady’s parents’ bed.

 

Growling, the younger Winchester stuffed his mouth with more fruit and cheese, biting down viciously on the apple and feeling the juice run down his chin. He didn’t want to fucking _remember_ , he _didn't_ want to recall the utterly vacant look on her face, the ecstasy that was soon eclipsed by the numbness that overtook them both as they spiraled higher and higher and higher -

 

_“Harder,” she gasped, grabbing at his arms and sinking long nails into his skin. It burned, but Sam groaned, the heat a heady feeling that pushed his mind to new heights. “Fuck me harder, Sam!”_

 

_He rolled them over, pinning her slim form beneath him as he bit down on her neck, sinking his teeth hard enough into her skin that he left impressions. She screamed, twisting her legs around his waist even tighter as he slammed into her dripping pussy._

 

_“Sa-Sam,” she sobbed, clenching around him as his vision darkened and he could see two of her. He rolled his hands down her naked body, pausing at her pretty titties to roll a nipple between his fingers. She gasped, yanking his head down to kiss him roughly, biting at his mouth - her teeth sank into the plump flesh of his lower lip and he groaned as the metallic taste of blood covered his tongue as much as the smoky taste of Ruby itself did._

 

 _He pulled out, pinching her nipple - hard - and she keened, back arching as he thrust inside again, the hot, wet warmth around him almost as wonderful as the silence, the blessed_ silence _in his head._

 

 _There was nothing,_ nothing _.... Nothing beyond this, the blood pumping through his veins, the pounding in his head, the wetness of the girl before him and the taste of her in his mouth… no thought, no worry, no guilt, just silence,_ silence _, so much silence that it_ echoed _-_

 

 _He opened his mouth to yell; he could_ talk _, he_ could _speak, his voice wasn’t gonna_ hurt _, he didn't_ kill _Bill, it was okay, he could say shit, because it was Ruby, just_ Ruby _, who wouldn't judge him, who was as fucked in the head as he was, who_ enjoyed _being cut up, who enjoyed blood and cutting and the high, oh_ fuck, _the_ high -

 

The slamming of the door startles him awake, and Sam sits up, heart pounding as he blinks the images away, the memory burning through his brain. He swallows hard, pushing down the bile that rose in his throat; looking down, he holds back a groan at the bulge he sees through his pants.

 

His stomach lurches, the apples coming back up as his head flops to the back of the couch in defeat. Fuck, how… _how_ can he be aroused by that memory? _How_ can he still respond to Ruby like that, how can he still _miss_ her after all that she’s made him do?

 

But that was it, wasn’t it? Ruby _didn't_ make him do anything, _Sam_ did it on his own. She offered him the coke and the unprotected sex, and he took it - it was a conscious choice _he_ made, because he wanted to forget, just…because…

 

Because he wanted to forget the image of his brother getting fucked in the alleyway behind The Roadhouse and having cash thrown at his feet that he picked up and counted, looking utterly tired and defeated after the biker came on his face… because Sam _knew_ , even then, that that was the money that was going to go towards _his_ college fund, that Dean was turning tricks to put him through the college _he_ had given up.

 

The burning in his eyes and the back of his throat is as much from nausea as from his tears and Sam turns into the couch’s leather, inhaling deeply in the smell of the ratty old thing. It smells of motor oil and leather, a scent he associates with his earliest memories, first of Dad and then of Dean when Dad began to be replaced with the smell of booze instead of car-loving mechanic.

 

The arousal thrumming through his veins begins to fade in the face of his nausea, his pants expanding slowly as his erection wilts. Sam breathes in deeply again, trying to stop the spinning of his head, trying to just _forget_.

 

“Sam?”

 

Dean’s voice was soft, worried and he wants to answer, but _suddenly_ , his words are stuck in his throat again, stuck, stuck and _stuck_ \- they won't come _out_ -

 

And the old, familiar panic returns; he _can't_ talk, he can’t, he _won't_ speak - he can _not_ \- not when his words hurt, they maim, they _kill_ -

 

Dean doesn’t seem to notice his quiet panic attack as he walks in, throwing his shoes off and his keys into the bowl. Sam’s eyes open to the narrowest of slit as he peers at his brother, a small whimper at the back of his throat that he swallows because he won’t put this on Dean, he _won't_ -

 

His brother pauses in front of the couch, shrugging his jacket off as he takes in the prone form of Sam lying on the couch and then sighs. He looks so tired, so utterly run down that Sam wants to push himself off the couch and go grab him in a hug, but he’s well aware of how that’d go over, so he forces himself to lie still, shaking quietly as the panic mounts in a slow, debilitating manner.

 

His heart is racing and all he can hear is the blood pounding through his head as the sweat beads on his palms, still holding the remnants of the apple slices he was eating earlier. His breath is short and he wants to forget, just fuck, for a _minute_ -

 

“Sammy,” Dean’s voice is a broken whisper and a moment later, Sam feels the gruffly tender touch of the elder Winchester’s palms as he wipes the sweat off of his forehead, fingers lingering over the slight bruise on his cheek that he’d given him earlier. And Sam realizes with a start that he will have a black eye tomorrow, the thought not even having registered in his brain, but Dean clearly is being choked up by the guilt of it.

 

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, sinking to his knees next to the couch; something soft and sweaty brush against Sam’s fingers and he knows it’s Dean’s hair. He can feel the couch shifting and shaking in sync with the rhythmic shaking of the mechanic’s shoulders and though he wants nothing more than to get up and _tell_ his brother that it is _not_ his fault, that _Sam_ fucked up, but the words _won't_ come -

 

 _He_ said yes to Ruby, he _said_ yes to her -

 

**_I’m sorry - I’m sorry - I’m sorry -_ **

 

The words echo, bounce around his skull again and again, lips forming the words, but his voice is gone, fucking _gone_ , it won't come as Bill’s face collapses into Ruby’s sneer in his mind, Dean’s final expression of horror and disappointment when he found them almost dead behind the bleachers too much -

 

 **_Fuck, Dean, I’m sorry, it’s not_ ** **you** **_, it’s_ ** **not** **_-_ **

 

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry, Sammy,” Dean’s crying, but he’s not sobbing and it breaks Sam’s heart that this is how he’s trained himself to be vulnerable. Dad hammered into their heads that vulnerability is weak and Dean can't _ever_ be weak, not openly, not in front of Sam, because _Dean_ is the caretaker, both Mom and Dad to Sam, and who’s gonna take care of _him_ then?

 

Sam’s been trying for years, but Dean’s never let him, not fully and it used to hurt, used to rankle, because he _wants_ to help, but he _can’t_ , he doesn’t know _how_ and he _wants_ to help, he wants _so_ much that it’s too big to voice, too _big_ to give words to -

 

He _killed_ Bill, _he_ was yelling at Dad for being an asshole and Dad wrapped the Impala around a tree and it was _Sam’s_ voice that Bill heard last, Sam’s anger and hate and vitriol-filled words that the Harvelle man had to bear as Dad put him on speaker -

 

“I failed you,” Dean continues, and Sam wants to scream that _no_ , he hasn’t, Dean’s the _one_ person that has never failed Sam -

 

He can’t _speak_ , he can’t, he _won’t_ , because his words _hurt_ Dean, they hurt his brother - he saw the expression on his big brother’s face this evening, it’s safer if he keeps quiet, if he’s mute, because he can’t say anything wrong, he can’t hurt -

 

“I’m sorry,” he falls silent, breathing in deeply and shaking. For long moments, there is nothing but silence as Sam’s panic mounts, the anger mixing with helplessness and the need to forget brings the craving back, it burns and he needs, he _needs_ -

 

And then Dean gets up, grabs the few apple pieces in Sam’s hands and gently rearranges him into a more comfortable position. He didn't even notice the crick in his neck or how much his legs ached from the cramped space, but of course, his brother - who’s been looking after him since he was a baby - notices and tries to take care of him. Again.

 

He hurt _Dean_ , he _hurt_ him, he _can’t_ speak, he _shouldn’t_ -

 

Sam chokes quietly on the tears he’s biting back and Dean notices the small whimper that escapes him this time.

 

“Sam?” he murmurs, but Sam can't answer, he can't feel his tongue, can't feel his voice and Dean seems to think that he’s still sleeping. He quickly brushes his hand through the younger Winchester’s hair and gets to his feet shakily, spreading the throw over Sam’s figure properly.

 

“I promise, Sammy,” he says quietly, voice filled with conviction that is so _Dean_ , it makes Sam’s heart hurt to hear it. “I promise I’ll keep you safe… it’s my job, right? Watch out for my pain in the ass little brother? I’ve been doing a shit job of it recently, but I _swear_ , Sam… I _swear_ I’mma geddit right this time. I won’t let any of those bastards get to you.”

 

With that, he gets up and walks away, moving with purpose in the direction of his bedroom. And every step he takes makes Sam’s blood go cold, because if Dean’s promising to _protect_ him, to keep him _safe_ from ‘those bastards’… it can only mean one thing.

 

Crowley and his goons are back for cash that Sam owes them.

 

And if there’s one thing Dean’s always been good at, it’s tearing himself apart to fulfill Sam’s dreams - and his debt.

 

*-*-*

 

Dean’s in the kitchen next morning when he hears Sam groan from the living room, where he conked out. Last night, by the time he came home, his brother was fast asleep on the couch, dead to the world. A part of him mourned the baby that he could lift up and carry up the stairs to his room; the rest of him was just fucking glad that he didn't have to face the child he thrashed into the ground without a second thought.

 

He’s a goddamned coward and he knows it. Not only did he hurt Sam, but he stayed out until he knew the younger Winchester would be asleep, because he didn't want to face him. He didn't want to face the fact that he _hurt_ him, didn't want to give him the apology that he feels die on his tongue every single time he thinks of Sam.

 

How the hell do you apologize to a brother you’re raising? How do you tell him how sorry you are that you hurt him?

 

How can words ever encompass the enormity of the guilt you feel?

 

Dean doesn’t know. So he didn't even try, because yeah, he’s that fucking pathetic. Instead, he stayed out, got interrogated by the local Sheriff, lied to her and then came home and apologized to a fucking sleeping child… he _wants_ to say sorry, but he doesn’t know how.

 

So he just putters about the kitchen like an idiot, frying eggs and bacon and Dad’s favorite kitchen sink-stew. Food is his way of telling Sam the things that won't come out of his mouth; if he can make a tasty breakfast, if he can lay out a full feast in front of his brother by the time the moose girl gets up…

 

Pushing the thought away, he gets transfers the stew into a bowl, quickly wiping his hands down and carrying the tray into the living room. Sam sits up in bed, bleary-eyed, his long hair askew and dirty as he stretches, yawning tiredly and jumping off the couch.

 

He doesn’t say anything, instead just ambling toward the table and plopping down on it tiredly. Dean examines his stature with a close eye, suddenly concerned - Sam looks like utter shit, lines of exhaustion on his face as he reaches blindly for the coffee pot.

 

Mother _fucker,_ how did he not notice the sunken look of Sam’s cheek before now? Or the thin, lanky frame? Or the listless way his once-precious locks fell unkempt into red, swollen eyes as he peered up at Dean in quiet question?

 

And that bruise… fuck, _he_ gave his brother that bruise. The skin around his eye is already purpling wonderfully, swollen and tight, and god _damn_ it, Dean wants to go punch himself right the hell now because he… he hurt _Sam._

 

His throat tight, Dean just walks back into the kitchen, fist clenching and unclenching, as the bacon sizzles on the stove, the sound and smell distracting him enough to pull him out of his own head. Sam chooses that moment to groan again, this time actually making a garbled noise that sounds all too much like, “Coooooffeeee…” and Dean doesn't know if he wants to laugh at that or cry.

 

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he leans up, yanking the cupboard a bit too harshly before he pulls out another coffee mug. He stomps over to the coffeemaker sitting innocently at the edge of the kitchen counter and fills it up, quickly pouring in some milk and adding a spoon of that stupid brown sugar that Sam insists on buying. Mug in hand, he marches to the living room and dumps the coffee in front of his brother.

 

Sam doesn’t say anything, but quietly accepts the coffee, putting the mug to his mouth and sipping from it carefully. Dean doesn’t have to warn him to be careful at how hot it is; Sam knows that if there’s one thing Dean would do, it’s make sure his baby brother is okay.

 

Fuck, he _used_ to make sure that he was okay… now, he’s the abusive asshole who thrashes him into the ground and gives him black eyes.

 

Does Sam know he can still trust Dean? Does he know _how_ sorry Dean is?

 

Is he _scared_ of his big brother?

 

The lump in his throat is becoming harder by the minute, so Dean simply walks back into the kitchen, drowning the last of his own coffee, the bitterness on his tongue a matching companion to the way his stomach churns.

 

Turning the stove off, he dumps the food on to their remaining pieces of china, carrying it out on a second tray to the living room. Sam is still sipping his coffee, having already drained half the mug as he glances up, features arranging themselves into an expression of worry and exhaustion.

 

“Dean,” he begins, voice quiet, “Dean, I-”

 

“Eat,” the elder Winchester interrupts gruffly, sliding the plate of bacon and fried eggs over to him. “It’s Dad’s famous cure-all kitchen sink stew. Enough cayenne pepper in ‘ere to burn your lips off.”

 

“Dean, last night-” Sam tries again but he turns his back to him, focusing on setting the table and arranging the plates and the forks.

 

“Should keep your strength up, you’re goin’ back to school Monday, eat, Sam,” he insists.

 

Sam opens his mouth - to argue, no doubt - but Dean doesn’t let him, instead slamming down his own mug on to the table hard enough that it rattles. He throws the lid off of the stew, refusing to meet Sam’s eyes and gets up again, marching back into the kitchen.

 

Knives, where had he put the knives?

 

Sam can't have breakfast without the knives, where the hell did he put those fucking butter knives?

 

He rummages through the drawers, searching for them, when he hears the pitter-patter of Sam’s big feet behind him. He bangs the forks against one another, yanking out a number of the ladles and the spoons before throwin’ ‘em back in, making as much noise as he can, because… fuck, he doesn’t wanna talk.

 

He doesn’t know what to say, what the fuck _can_ he say?

 

_Sorry?_

 

Sorry doesn’t fucking _begin_ to cover it, it doesn’t make the pain of that bruise go away, or the hurt that Dean’s dished out over the years, enough that Sam had to shoot up to get away from his brother -

 

“Dean,” Sam murmurs, hovering at the doorway of the kitchen. He doesn't come in, doesn’t say anything else and Dean continues to rummage, the words in his throat - the apology and the begging for Sam to come back, the promise that he _will_ protect him this time, the motherfriggin’ _words_ \- feel like lead, choking him.

 

“Thank you,” Dean slams the drawers shut at Sam’s quiet whisper.

 

Fuck.

 

_Fuck._

 

He’s suddenly angry, goddamned _hell_ , Sammy knows where it hurts, he _knows_ where to fucking hit - thank you? _Thank you?_

 

For what? For being the son of a bitch who hurt him? For being the pathetic emotionally repressed asshole who can't even offer a friggin’ apology?

 

For being a brother who’s failed Sam again and again, and fucking again?

 

Dean whirls around on one foot, the words now spewing past his tongue, rage and self-recrimination flowing out of his mouth, when he sees that Sam’s already gone, already moved back to the table, where he’s sitting quietly, eating whatever the fuck concoction Dean put in front of him.

 

And that sight - it’s that sight which breaks him. Because Sam is just _sitting_ there, quietly, without a word, so similar to when he used to be mute, so similar to when he’d want to say so fucking much, but terrified that his voice would hurt another person. Back then, it didn't matter to him that he couldn't speak as long as Dean could understand him.

 

Nothing’s changed, it seems, because the expression on Sammy’s face is still the same warmth, still the same silent gratitude that his big brother still cares, that his big brother isn’t gonna throw his ass to the curb for being the burden that he thinks he is. It's Dean who's changed,  _Dean_ who's become so cynical and jaded and lost - Dean who hurt him. 

 

A great, gulping, choking sob claws its way out of the elder Winchester's throat - he sinks to the ground, grabbing at his knees blindly and wrapping his arms around them. He’s shakin’, he’s startled to realize, shaking and shuddering, nausea swimming up to his nose.

 

He hurt Sam.

 

He _hurt_ him.

 

And Dad wants money.

 

Gordon is _dead_ , mom’s _dead_ , Dean needs _money_ , fuck, he needs the cash, and he _hurt_ Sam, he thrashed his brother, and Gordon is dead, and he has to keep him safe, _safe_ , how can he -

 

He can’t breathe, Gordon is dead, dead, _why isn’t there any fuckin’ air - why is his chest so tight - why can't he see -_

 

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ -

 

“Dean!” Sam’s voice is alarmed and Dean twists, trying to reach for his brother, but he can't _see_ anything, he can't _breathe_ , shit, how is he gonna keep him safe if he doesn’t even _know_ where the hell Sam is -

 

He’s gonna have to go sell himself again, he’s gonna have to go service some asshole, man or woman, to get the fucking cash -

 

_Dad needs that money -_

 

“I’m here, Dean,” Sam says. He sounds tired and worried and panicked, and Dean just wants to say sorry; he’s so fucking _sorry_ that he hurt him, he’s so fucking _sorry_ that he’s such a goddamned mess, that he’s so useless that Sam had to get high to forget that it wasn’t _Dad_ taking care of him, but his brother…

 

He’s just so sorry.

 

“It’s okay, Dean, it’s okay,” Sam’s muttering, “It’s not your fault, hell, it’s never been, you’re my brother, you’re my big brother, and I love you, it’s not your fault -”

 

Dean’s babbling crap, he knows he is, but he just needs Sam to _know_ , just needs his brother to know that he didn't mean it, he _loves_ Sam, he does -

 

The tears from last night are pouring out and he can taste it, taste the damn salt on his lips, taste the piss and the bile bitter on his tongue.

 

_I’msorry-I’msorry-I’msorry - Dad, I’m sorry, come back, Sammy, I’mssory-I’msorry -_

 

He whispers it again and again.

 

It doesn’t matter that Dean has to sell himself, that he’ll do anything - anything Crowley asks - as long as _Sam_ is safe, as long as Sam can get to fucking Harvard or Stanford or wherever the hell it is he wants to leave Dean behind for -

 

Thin, lanky arms wrap themselves around him and Dean melts against his brother, clutching at him tightly, reveling in the warmth as the panic bleeds out of his system, leaving him drained and utterly exhausted.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says hoarsely, “God Dean, I am so sorry.”

 

He doesn’t say anything, he _can’t_ say anything.

  
And the rest of the weekend passes in the same, unhealthy silence that is so fucking loud, Dean doesn’t know how to break it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Thoughts - 
> 
> Wowzers, this one put me through the emotional wringer. I think I cried my way through the whole thing. A lot of Sam's helplessness and mutism comes from my own personal experiences, even though I know absolutely nothing about addiction, so this was quite the challenge for me. Next chapter is fluff to free you from the angst, I promise! Well... ish. 
> 
> See y'all in two weeks!


	10. Back to School Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming back to school is strange, but Sam makes a new friend, maybe even two. Mostly fluff, mild angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back! Thanks as always to my beta and cheerleaders. The last few chapters have been angst heavy, so this one fluff! Well, mostly, since my brain can't not have angst. But, oh the feels! 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS - Recollections of drug and rehab, mutism, nightmares, slight bullying, deafness and slight ableism

**Chapter 9 - Back to School Blues**

 

Monday morning brings with it the routine of going back to school and moving, which quickly turns into a nightmare. The weekend was fucking hard; Castiel doesn’t often swear, but he has no other words to describe the way Claire clung to him the entire time, attached to his hip and refusing to let him out of her sight. 

 

In hindsight, he really should have expected this when she wouldn’t even let him walk out of the door yesterday - she panicked and started crying instantly, and so, he put off getting groceries and instead, just lugged her around the house as she sobbed into his shirt. At the beginning, Emma was happy enough to entertain her big sister, but it wasn’t long before she broke down as well, her own tears a sympathetic companion to Claire’s because she doesn’t know how else to respond in such a situation. 

 

So, he’s actually been looking forward to Monday quietly… he loves his girls, adores them, but a parent needs a break sometimes. And every time he thinks that, he feels the guilt overwhelm him - his girls have  _ no _ one else, and they’re in fucking  _ danger  _ and this is what he feels? School, then, gives him the perfect opportunity to get that break without the guilt; he can drop them off, knowing they’ll be safe, and breathe a little bit before the madness begins again. 

 

Or that was the theory of it anyway… the reality is that Claire is clinging to him still, curled up in bed, and refusing to go to school. Given that the bullies she encountered on Halloween were school-kids, maybe even her own classmates, he’s annoyed that he didn't expect this to happen.

 

Gods, Castiel is so  _ tired _ \- tired of counting every shadow, tired of suspecting every person who crosses them, tired of rechecking his every step to make sure he isn’t slipping up and leaving behind a trail of breadcrumbs for his elder brothers to follow back to his daughters.  

 

All he wants to do is sink into bed and sleep and  _ forget _ , just for a little while. He doesn’t want to think, doesn’t want to keep calculating if every decision he’s making is going to be life-threatening. Parenting is hard, he gets that; no dad gets it right all the time, no dad can be perfect. But the enormity of the burden placed on his shoulders - to raise them right  _ while  _ making sure they stay hidden and alive…

 

It’s heavy. 

 

Sighing, he gently shakes Claire’s shoulders, careful to murmur in her ear so that she isn’t startled. “Claire,” he whispers, “Baby, come on. I have school and so do you.”

 

Claire refuses to answer, simply curling tighter around her pillow, loose limbs wrapped in a protective embrace that would be a choke-hold if she were hugging him. 

 

“Claire,” he sighs, “Hiding out in bed isn't going to help, love. Come now, we need to get to school.”

 

_ I don't want to,  _ she’s sniffling again, and her hands are shaky as they spell out the words. Emma is still asleep across the hall in her own room, and Castiel bites back a curse when he sees the glassy look in Claire’s eyes. 

 

Dammit. 

 

How the  _ fuck _ is he supposed to ask her to just get over this? He can't, because she  _ can’t _ . Trauma doesn’t go away, doesn’t just vanish because the world continues to spin - Claire was bullied, and it’s making her question her own safety in a manner that she hasn’t since those first, horrid days.  And there’s nothing Castiel can say or do except help her through it, sit with her through it, just like he did back then. So he gathers her close and kisses her wet cheek and leans his forehead against hers. 

 

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “I get that you don't want to leave home… and I promise you, you’re not going to be by yourself… would you like to come to Daddy’s school instead?” 

 

He’s going to have to speak to both Claire’s homeroom teacher and Principal Tran, but he can’t just leave Claire like this, he knows. He can't take the risk of her having a panic attack in the middle of class, can’t handle her _needing_ him and him not being there for her - again. 

 

She looks up at him with wide eyes, tears filling them as she sniffles again.  _ Sc-school? _ she signs,  _ yours?  _

 

He nods, tenderly running his hand through her long, golden hair, undoing the tangles he finds one by one. 

 

“I have classes to teach today, but you can spend time in my classroom if you’d like?” he poses it as a question, offering the control she feels is gone.

 

She bites her lower lip, chewing on it the way Meg used to. And that reminder, of his old girlfriend, of the mother that Claire left behind… He pushes it away. It wasn't all bad; Meg had, once, loved Claire. And _ he _ had loved her - he doesn’t regret anything he shared with her, because that’s what has given him his baby girl and there’s nothing he’ll change about that.

 

_ I…  _ she hesitates, and then boldly continues when he nods reassuringly at her.  _ There won't be… people?  _

 

There was a time when Claire was as outgoing and sociable as Emma, when she didn't consider every person other than her family to be a potential threat. He’s grateful as fuck that she still trusts  _ him _ , still has faith in him, because she saw her own mother cut into him, and  _ fuck _ , how does he even  _ begin  _ to make trauma like that okay? 

 

Swallowing hard, he shakes his head and thumbs her cheek, wiping away the single tear that has fallen down the side of her face.  “It’s high school,” he says softly, “And I have students. But you don't have to speak to anyone you don't want to, alright?” 

 

_ Your… classroom?  _

 

He pauses on a particularly knotted up tangle in her hair. She hisses as it pulls on her scalp lightly and he immediately draws his hand back, gently undoing the long strands and rubbing her shoulder soothingly. 

 

“My classroom,” he agrees, “No one would bother you, you could sit and read in the back if you like… or you would you like me to get you your lessons from Ms. Donna for the day and you could do them yourself at my desk?” 

 

She perks up at that, leaning into his touch as he finally gets rid of the annoying knot and smooths the hair out, evening the surface. Nuzzling into his touch like a cat, she turns wide eyes to him that are not so far away, breathing in deeply. 

 

_ Please, Daddy.  _

 

A tremulous smile blooms on her face when he sighs against her neck, dropping a quick kiss on her forehead.  “Then you must get ready,” he says, “Like I should… would you wake your sister up for me?” 

 

_ No! _ Her hands shake as she signs, _ I don't want to leave you! Daddy, please, I don't - I ca-can’t - _

 

“Claire,” he mutters past the sudden lump in his throat, “Claire, sweetheart, I’m here, in this house. You’re safe, Claire.  _ Safe _ . I promise.” 

 

She shivers in his arms, and he sighs again, pulling her close and lifting her up. She buries her face into his chest, holding him tightly, so he simply throws his legs over the side of the bed and carries her out into the hall, walking down into the kitchen to get the coffee going before he moves to the task of waking his youngest up. Emma won't be happy about Claire going to school with him, she’ll want to come too. 

 

He’s going to need the caffeine, he can tell - today is going to be a fucking long day. 

 

*-*-*

 

Stepping into school is _weird_. 

 

Sam doesn’t quite know how to deal with this, these long and winding hallways and corridors that bring back so many disturbing memories. Sioux Falls High has been both his refuge and his grave - before Ruby, before everything, school was the one place where he could let go, where he could forget, if only for a little while, what his life was actually like outside these halls. 

 

Inside here, he could study, he could escape into the worlds of math and science and literature. Dean doesn't understand his need to study so hard, Sam knows, but for him - his academics were once the thing that kept him going, especially when he became mute. His brother is intelligent, one of the smartest people he knows, but Dean prefers hands on work. Sam, though... Sam finds solace in research and in words and in information, because he's been mute, been mum and in the silence, it was information and words that kept him going - until they became too much, echoed too much inside his head. 

 

And then Ruby came. Sam was aiming to be valedictorian back then, throwing himself into his work, learning how to speak again, first with his hands and then with his voice. She pulled him out of his shell, took him under her wing - Dean doesn’t know, can’t possibly understand the attraction, but Ruby was  _ alive _ … so alive and fresh and  _ warm _ , and in those first few days at least, so  _ precious _ , because she helped him find his voice again. 

 

So he let it go, let her guide him out of the silence in ways that weren’t entirely legal or good, in ways that makes him hang his head down in shame now. From sex to alcohol to pain and then drugs, she led him through it all, until he went blind, until he lost his voice a third time, not to mutism or to the trauma, but to his head, to the silence inside that engulfed him in a way it hadn’t been able to before.

 

And now, here he is, back in the same halls that were once his escape; he is so far behind in his studies, valedictorian isn't even in his vocabulary. A small, tight-knit suburban community and a kind school principal meant that he was able to take his finals separately, but he  _ barely  _ passed those, given how many classes he missed close to the end of term and how _high_ he was for the few he did attend. 

 

If he graduates, he’ll count it as a win. 

 

Dean’s saving up for his college fund, but that’s a whole can of worms Sam isn’t quite willing to open at the moment. Back before Ruby, he wanted to get into Stanford, become a lawyer and help people - now, all he wants is to make sure his brother is okay, make sure that he doesn’t slip back into the habit, because even now, standing here, in front of the place where it all started, Sam can  _ feel  _ it, feel the urge, the  _ need  _ thrumming through his veins. 

 

Swallowing hard, he steps forward, walking into the main hallway and heading down the corridor. His first class is English, he sees, as he glances at the timetable in his hand; it’s a new teacher by the name of Mr. Newman, since Ms. Visyak left last term. Sam doesn’t know who this new person is - he’s worried about catching up, given that he’s already joining them in the middle of the term. 

 

He sighs, walking down the hallways and hunkering his shoulders, trying to feel smaller. He’s had a growth spurt while inside rehab; it’s not that he hates his height, he just doesn’t want to be very visible now. 

 

Everyone at Sioux Falls High knows exactly what happened. The corridors are still relatively empty - Sam left home purposefully early, ignoring Dean’s offers of dropping him off in the Impala on his way to work. He took the bus and arrived half an hour earlier to avoid the crowd; the only ones now are the few stragglers like himself who either don't care about him or ignore him completely. 

 

He comes to a stop in front of the classroom, hand poised to knock as he peeks inside. The door is open, but the room itself is empty - whoever this Mr. Newman is, he apparently hasn’t arrived yet. 

 

Shrugging to himself, he walks inside, picking a desk at the far end of the corner, closer to the window, but at the very front. That way, he’s close enough to be with the overachieving first-benchers, but far enough that he’s cut off from them, cut off from  _ everyone _ , just the way he wants it. 

 

Sam doesn’t know if he’s quite up for interaction, really. Not when everyone _knows_ what he is - a drug addicted loser whose deadbeat Dad ran off after he became selectively mute.  His eyes burn and he quickly drops his bag next to the seat he’s chosen, sitting down at the desk and pulling out his tattered copy of  _ Oliver Twist _ , thumbing through its pages in a vain attempt to distract himself. The book was on their required readings the previous term - he didn't read it then, but it was one of the things that carried him through the months spent in rehab. 

 

Oliver is a sad, pathetic character who couldn’t quite take charge of his own life; he was acted  _ upon, _ instead of acting himself, and in many ways, Sam feels his own life mirror that. For the past few months - hell, for the past few  _ years  _ \- his entirely life’s been spinning out if his control, and Sam has no idea how to fix it. 

 

_ Is _ there a way to fix it? 

 

Trying to ignore the thoughts - the words, the yells and the  _ need  _ \- swimming through his head, Sam opens the book and tries to read. It isn’t long before the words on the page begin to drown the words in his mind, and for that, at least, Sam’s grateful. 

 

He’s about one third into  _ Treats of the Place where Oliver was born _ when he hears it - the bell clangs, once, twice, thrice, signalling the start of the school day. He can hear the crowd outside, hears the way the doors open and the footsteps crunch against one another. He hunkers down, shoulders closing in on themselves as he tries to become invisible - fuck,  _ why  _ did he think he could be back here again so easily? 

 

Just as he’s about to bury his face in his book, the small pitter-patter of feet distract him and he shoots a glance at the doorway, expecting to see the first of his classmates staggering in. 

 

Instead, he sees a tiny little girl, barely three feet tall, dressed in a dark blue skirt running inside. Her long blonde hair hangs over her small shoulders in two adorable pigtails and she’s carrying big, green colored backpack that practically half her size. 

 

It’s her expression, though, that catches Sam’s attention. She looks scared, her pale skin flushed a bright red and her round, blue eyes - a perfect match for her skirt, his mind notes distantly - are wide and glassy, red-rimmed around the edges. Her hands are clutching at the sleeves of her backpack desperately, fingers clenching and unclenching in a manner Sam finds strangely familiar.

 

He opens his mouth, about to call out to her, when another pair of footsteps - heavier this time - follow. Sam watches as a tall man in a beige trench coat walks in, hurrying over to where she is standing unsurely. The girl looks round furtively, obviously searching for something. She opens her mouth, trying to say something - only a small hiss comes out, even as her lips move, forming words that never make it past her throat.  Her gaze falls on him, and she lets out a little whimper, instinctively hunching in on herself, turning away instantly, shoulders shaking. From his vantage point, Sam sees the way her backpack moves up and down as whimpering hiccups reach his ears - it should be cute, but it really isn’t. 

 

Before Sam can say anything though, the man behind her places a gentle hand on her shoulder. 

 

“Claire?” he murmurs; his voice, Sam notes, is low and rough. The girl whimpers and pivots on one foot, hugging his legs. The man - probably his new teacher, the young Winchester realizes - rubs her head tenderly, patting her back before he picks her hand up and twines his fingers with hers. 

 

“Do you want to go sit at my table?” he asks softly and she nods. The man looks up, his blue eyes meeting Sam’s, and a dark brow rises up, but he doesn’t say anything as he leads the girl to his desk.  The minute he pulls out the chair, the girl shakes her head and tugs on his coat. The man - Mr. Newman, Sam recalls from his timetable chart - bends down and she shakes her head. Dropping her coat, she raises shaky hands. 

 

Sam freezes when those hands begin to form shapes; it’s been almost two years, but he  _ knows  _ those movements, knows those  _ shapes _ . He hasn’t used ASL in ages, but he can never forget the language that gave him a voice again, a voice he could use without having panic attacks. 

 

_ Under… Daddy, under.  _

 

She points to the table, and in a flash, Sam understands - for some reason, she wants to crawl _under_ the desk and not sit behind it. 

 

In that gesture, he gets two things. One, this is Mr. Newman’s daughter, and two, she’s selectively mute. Sam knows literally nothing about people who are born mute, but he  _ does  _ understand mutism, recognizes the look on her face, and the way she whimpers but doesn’t quite talk. Her mouth opens, wanting to speak, but the voice doesn’t come out, and she closes it again, almost as though surprised that she can’t speak any longer. 

 

It hurts,  _ fuck _ , it hurts, that a little girl like this could be mute. 

 

He looks up to see an expression of heartbroken resignation on Mr. Newman’s face, one he’s seen on Dean’s all too many times. His heart aches and he blinks away the sudden burning in his eyes as he closes his book and gets up, walking over to them. 

 

“Claire, sweetheart, you can sit on the desk,” Mr. Newman says.

 

He can’t  _ not _ help; he burns with the need, burns with wanting to pull this little girl into his arms and help her find her voice again, just like Dean did for him. That’s a bit creepy if thinks about it, but fuck, he’s seen that expression on his own mirror, remembers the need to crawl inside a bucket and never come out, and there’s no way in hell he’s gonna let her be alone like this. 

 

“Mr. Newman?” Sam calls quietly. The man looks up, momentarily looking confused before his expression closes off. Claire drops his hand and quickly crawls under the table, shivering and whimpering lightly as she clenches at the sleeves of her backpack tightly. 

 

“I’ll be with you in just a minute,” Mr. Newman says, turning back to his daughter, “Claire, baby -”

 

“I can help,” Sam cuts in and his teacher looks up again, annoyed, opening his mouth to say something.  Before he can though, Sam drops to his knees, holding his hands open and offering the little girl a wide smile. 

 

_ Hey,  _ he signs, the movements as familiar as they ever were,  _ do you want to come and sit with me? My name is Sam.  _

 

He spells out his name using the letters in ASL and her blue eyes go wide as saucers at the surprise of finding someone speaking her language. Her expression is heartbreaking, because Sam’s seen it on himself too many times, and  _ fuck  _ the world that makes children feel so crappy. 

 

Donna taught him the basics, but it was  _ Dean  _ who sat with him, hours and hours, as he worked through his panic attacks, worked through learning a whole new way of speaking that - hopefully - would not cause harm to anyone anymore. 

 

Dean helped him then. He’s going to help this little girl now. 

 

Gently, he reaches out and lets his hands hover in front of her own, not quite touching.  Next to him, he hears the hitch of breath from Mr. Newman, and he glances at him from the corner of his eye. But the man doesn’t protest as Claire reaches out hesitantly, finger hovering over Sam’s open palm as she looks up at him for confirmation. 

 

_ You can touch me, _ he signs, and a small, watery smile blooms on her face. She pokes at his palm curiously, blunt nail scraping across his rough skin and she giggles as he smiles, closing his fist quickly. 

 

“That tickles,” he murmurs and she giggles and does it again, poking him before rubbing his palm, her touch feather-light.  He wrinkles his nose as she looks up at him, eyes still glassy, but the corners of her lips are curving up into a small smile and next to him, Mr. Newman sighs. 

 

“Claire,” he sighs, “Do you want to go sit with…” he looks at Sam, “Sam, is it?” Even as he speaks, his eyes go wide, in recognition, and he feels his heart sink. “Sam…  _ Winchester _ ?” he asks and Sam nods through the bitterness suddenly souring his tongue. 

 

Because of friggin’ _course_ , the man has heard of him. Sioux Falls is a small community, and even otherwise, he’s joining mid-term. Principal Tran must’ve had to tell him  _ something  _ to explain his late entry.

 

Sam stiffens, braces himself for the judgment, the suspicion that every adult seems to eye him with nowadays. The stigma of being selectively mute came with more pity; it was hard, but he was used to it, what with the deadbeat Dad he’s had all his life. The stigma of being an addict is different - there’s _suspicion_ , anger, hate and judgment, as though just speaking to Sam could mean addiction for them, as though he’s a contagion to be avoided. Why would they let him be a part of them, much less handle their kids? 

 

But Mr. Newman doesn’t say anything; if anything, he simply smiles at Sam and turns back to Claire.  “Would you like to sit with Sam, Claire?” he asks quietly, surprising him. 

 

_ I am over there, _ Sam indicates, pointing to the seat that is far enough from the crowd, but close to enough to be part of the class and she peeks out hesitantly. “It’s quiet and I won’t disturb you,” he says. 

 

“And you can do the lessons Ms. Donna has given you here,” Mr. Newman smiles encouragingly as Sam nods, holding his hand out. 

 

_ I… Nobody… I don't have to talk? Daddy, you’ll be here?  _

 

Her fingers pause and she looks up at her dad, who sighs and nods. 

 

“I’m here, Claire,” he whispers, “The whole time. And Sam is too, right?” 

 

_ Definitely _ , Sam signs,  _ and I won’t even disturb you, I promise.  _

 

She considers it for a long moment, biting her lower lip. Sam is struck by how small she is, but already, she seems to have seen so much. He wonders if this ridiculously protective swelling in his chest is what Dean feels each time he looks at Sam; if it is, he suddenly understands the crazy over-protectiveness his brother sometimes thrusts down his throat. 

 

_ Okay, _ she finally signs, placing her hands on Sam’s palms trustingly. Mr. Newman grins, pulling back, and Sam smiles too, gently helping her get out from under the table, moving back. 

 

Just then, the first few students walk inside the class, their loud laughter distracting him from the little girl. Sam looks up, stepping back as Claire fiddles with her backpack, dusting off her knees. 

 

He freezes when he sees who is at the very front of the group -  _ Jessica Moore _ and her friends. Cassie, Ava, Jake and Andy form a wall behind her, all of them falling silent when they come face to face with him, eyes narrowing and expressions souring. 

 

Because he and Jess were once a thing,  _ almost  _ a thing, whatever they had… they went on dates, Sam was ready to officially ask her to be his girlfriend, when Ruby showed up. 

 

Fuck, this is… how the  _ hell _ did he not anticipate this happening? 

 

But he did, didn’t he? That’s why he left early, that’s why he’d hoped to be sitting in a cold corner where he wouldn't have to face this - where he wouldn't have to face the girl whose heart he broke so causally. 

 

“Hi Sam,” Jess says quietly. “It’s good to see you.”

 

Swallowing hard, he opens his mouth, closing it again, because  _ fuck _ , his words are stuck, they are stuck - words are promises, he breaks them, he  _ hurts  _ \- they choke - 

 

What is he supposed to say? What  _ can  _ he say, really? 

 

The urge returns, stronger than ever before, picking his skin, a  _ burning  _ fire just below the surface that he wants to just quiet, just silence, just  _ forget  _ \- 

 

The whimper distracts him again, a soft sound of utter terror and Sam abruptly turns back, unable to face Jessica’s soft, sad smile or the angry looks on her friends’ faces. He feels a slight tug on his pants and he bends down, offering Claire his hand and she snatches it instantly, quickly moving behind his legs to hide herself. 

 

“Sam, if you don't mind…” Mr. Newman trails off, eyes quickly darting to the rest of the class which is slowly trickling in, expressions of curiosity and - to Sam, seemingly intense sneers - lighting their faces. 

 

“Of course,” he nods and starts moving towards his seat, Claire following quickly. He ignores the way his classmates stare at him, instead grabbing another chair and placing it next to him. He sits on the side of Claire, shielding her from the room, his big form just enough to hide her almost fully. She looks up at him with a look of such happy gratitude, it breaks his heart. 

 

_ Okay?  _ he signs and she nods, shrugging her bag off and opening it. Mr. Newman watches them quietly, a look of relief on his face, and Sam smiles at him, tilting his head in acknowledgment, even as Claire pulls out a sheaf of papers and some crayons, fiddling with them.

 

Sam sighs, pulling out his own book, and settles down, waiting for Mr. Newman to call the class to order. 

 

Distantly, he hears the chatter pick up again. He hears his name, hears Cassie call him an  _ asshole  _ in a muttered tone of voice, hears Jake call him an  _ addict _ , hears Jess shush them and scold them to be polite. 

 

He hears it all, and it echoes within the confines of his brain and he swallows, pushing it down, down,  _ down -  _

 

Fuck, he gets now why Dean doesn’t want to confront anything, doesn’t wanna talk about it. Because what  _ is _ there to talk about? 

 

Throwing it to the back of his mind where he can pretend it doesn’t exist, he bends over the table. Focusing on Claire keeps him grounded and he looks up as Mr. Newman begins, ignoring the quiet whispers and the silent stares.  Sam’s a freak - first, he was the freak with the deadbeat Dad, then he was the freak who killed his pseudo-uncle with his voice and became selectively mute, and now, he’s the freak addict who almost died behind the bleachers. 

 

The stares and the whispers are nothing new. But for the first time, Sam thinks, as he glances over at the little girl frowning at her letters, for the first time, maybe being a freak wasn’t so bad, because here is a kid who he can help  _ because  _ of his time as the mute freak. 

 

It feels good. 

 

Mr. Newman begins roll call, checking his attendance, and Sam waits with bated breath for his name. Around him, the whispers have begun, but he studiously ignores them, posture stiff and defensive. Next to him, Claire looks at her dad, frowning, and her expression becomes one of intense concentration. 

 

Sam watches curiously as she carefully pulls out blue colored crayon and starts to shade it into the shapes; her worksheet is letters, he notices. She traces the letter A, colors it in, but doesn’t stop there - for every name that Mr. Newman calls out, she begins to write something below it. It doesn’t take him long to see that she’s making a list of all the names beginning with A, spelling it out carefully. 

 

Just then, her father moves on to calling out the students whose names start with B. she drops her crayon and picks up another one; it’s another blue shade, but Sam notices that the name is Baby Blue. He sneaks a peak at the previous one - Aqua Blue. Claire ignores him, spelling out the names her dad is calling out again. 

 

Damn, but this kid is smart. She’s probably in kindergarten, but she hasn’t gotten a single name wrong so far, even if she’s spelling out only the first names. And she’s matching colors - Mr. Newman moves to C, and she picks up the crayon labeled Cobalt.  

 

Sam finds himself smiling as he watches her traces out all the letters carefully. Somehow, she manages to find a lot of blue, and he chuckles at how she frowns when she can find no shade of blue in W. 

 

“Sam Winchester?” he might just be imagining it, but there’s a slight inflection of warmth in his new English teacher’s tone. Sam raises his hand and Mr. Newman moves right on, but the whispers around him emerge once again, and he hears the word  _ addict _ , _ freak, weirdo _ thrown behind him. 

 

A red flush blooms across his face and he instinctively hunches over, ears burning and his stomach churning as he closes his eyes in embarrassment. A small hand presses against his forearm hesitantly and he looks down to see Claire staring at him with an expression of concern on her face, holding her green colored crayon up. She tilts her head in a strange but adorable manner, a question written in her movements and he sighs, smiling at her. 

 

“You have good spelling,” he tells her, pointing at her worksheet. 

 

Two pale cheeks redden and dimple as she ducks her head shyly, giggling quietly. He chuckles, dropping a hand to her flaxen head to rub it gently. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Mr. Newman eyeing them with a smile of his own and he nods his head at his teacher in acknowledgement, ignoring the rest of his classmates. 

 

This term, Sam is surprised - and excited - to learn, they’re working with a number of modernist writers like Woolf and Joyce. Dean would call him a nerd, but Sam’s always loved reading, and some of these works sound right up his alley. 

 

Mr. Newman’s method of teaching suits Sam; they’re already working on Joyce’s infamous _Ulysses_ , and since he’s just joined the class, he’s a bit behind. But it isn’t hard for him to follow - for one, Sam’s read it before, and for another, Mr. Newman is patient, allowing each student to speak out and discuss what struck their fancy.  He can tell that he’s going to enjoy this class for the rest of the term. Smiling, he opens his notebook, penning down random notes through the class. He doesn’t have anything to contribute to the discussion, not right now, but he does intend to do his best. 

 

They’re about twenty minutes into the class when the knock comes. 

 

“Now, the novel is representative of the relationship between Ireland and Britain,” Mr. Newman pauses, looking at the doorway as Principal Tran walks in briskly. 

 

“Mr. Newman,” she says, her voice as crisp and sharp as ever. “I do apologize for interrupting your class, but would you come with me?” 

 

The dark-haired man stops, closing his book and moving away from his desk.  “Is everything alright, Principal Tran?” he asks. 

 

“Yes, but I need you to come with me immediately, please,” her tone leaves no room for argument and Mr. Newman nods. 

 

“But…” he turns to the class, who’s watching them curiously. His gaze lingers over Claire, meeting Sam’s, and in them, he sees a quiet worry. He tilts his head as reassuringly as he can and Mr. Newman doesn’t say anything, but Sam thinks he can see an expression of relief pass through his face. 

 

“If I’m not back before the end of our hour together,” he announces, “please sketch out a quick character and historical profile of the novel. I’ll collect it tomorrow and we will have a discussion.”

 

He turns to go, and next to Sam, Claire finally notices her Dad leaving. She drops her crayon and whimpers, raising her hands and Sam quickly turns back to her, shaking his head. 

 

“Hey,” he says, signing at the same time, “Hey, it’s okay. Your Dad will be back soon.” 

 

_ Dad… Daddy.  _ Her hands are shaking and she looks terrified. Her legs kick at the table as though she wants to get up and run. Sam reaches out, takes her hands gently and places his palms within hers, smiling reassuringly. 

 

“He’s just gone to meet with Principal Tran,” he tells her. Pulling back, he signs again.  _ He will be back. _

 

_ Daddy… I want Daddy.  _

 

_ He’s going to come back soon. I’ll stay with you until he does, okay?  _

 

She pauses at that, eyeing him suspiciously, scowling. Sam is struck by an absurd urge to laugh; she’s adorable, pink tongue sticking out as she inspects his face for any hint of a lie. 

 

_ You stay?  _

 

He nods. 

 

“I’ll stay,” he confirms. Screw his next classes, it doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not like he’s gonna be valedictorian, and his teachers probably already have a shitastic image of him in their heads.

 

He’d much rather stay here with this kid, whose face erupts into a bright, sunny smile as she nods and pokes her index finger at his palm again. 

 

_ Thank you.  _

 

He chuckles, nodding back, and they both pick up their books, diving into their respective workloads quietly. Around them, their class turns noisy, few students actually doing the work Mr. Newman has assigned them, instead chatting and laughing. Sam ignores them all, thumbing through his copy of _Ulysses_ and taking down notes. 

 

But high-school kids are little shits - it doesn’t take long before something hard bounces off of his head and Sam yelps in shock, startled at the sudden stinging at the base of his neck. 

 

Claire hums in her throat, tilting her head to the side as she looks up at him in question. He quickly shakes his head, offering her a small, pained smile and she returns to her letters. As soon as he sees that she’s distracted again, he turns around, eyes narrowing at where Jake is snickering at him. 

 

“Jake!” Jess’s annoyed voice carries over across the room and Sam swallows, closing his mouth where he’d been about to call the black boy out. No, he fucking deserved that and more, didn't he? 

 

Eyes burning, he goes back to Ulysses, when something hard bounces off of his head again. The eraser falls to the ground next to him, bouncing once, twice, thrice before it rolls to a stop and Sam’s throat burns but he still doesn’t protest, hunching over his desk.  Next to him, Claire looks up, her expression wrinkled into one of concern. Gently, she grabs at his sleeve and pulls it, dragging his attention to herself. He raises an eyebrow at her and she points to her papers, where she’s been scribbling and drawing. 

 

S-A-M  W-I-N-C-H-S-T-A-R

 

His name - she’s spelled his name out. And not just spelled it out, she’s drawn the letters in beautiful shapes, decorated them with vines and leaves moving in between the letters. For a kindergartner, this girl is damn good. 

 

Sam’s throat burns now for an entirely different reason, but he forces the tears back and smiles at her.

 

“That’s beautiful, Claire,” he says quietly. “You’re really good at drawing.”

 

Her face lights up, eyes crinkling at the corners as she grins widely.

 

_ But you got my last name wrong, _ he signs, gently pulling at one pigtail in a teasing manner and she pouts, brows furrowing as she stares at her drawing. 

 

_ Too big, _ she signs back and he can’t help the loud snort that escapes his lips. She grins up cheekily, gesturing her hands down his side and he realizes she’s talking about both him and his name. _ You very big, _ she giggles as he scowls. 

 

“Am I?” he says mockingly. “Or maybe _you’re_ just too small?”

 

He pokes at her palms like she did to him just a while ago and she shrieks in laughter, slapping his hands away. Chuckling, he moves his fingers to her sides, tickling her and she doubles up, giggling helplessly.  The sound of her voice is pure, sweet and it hurts to hear as much as it makes him smile - god, whatever happened to this kid? She’s got a lovely voice, with so much energy, but for some reason… she doesn’t _want_ to talk. 

 

It makes something within him twist. 

 

Pushing it down, he focuses on making her smile, tickling her gently. He’s careful with the way he touches her, making his movements obvious; from what he’s seen, she’s very conscientious of touch, and he doesn’t want to trigger her. If all she’ll use her voice for is laughing, then he’s damn well gonna make her giggle as loudly as he can. 

 

“You sure _you_ should be playing with _kids_?” Jake’s voice is rude, pissed and Sam freezes mid-tickle, looking up. 

 

Claire stiffens, falling quiet immediately, a small whimper escaping her lips. She inches closer to Sam, who wraps a protective arm around her and glares back at Jake, refusing to back down. 

 

“Mr. Newman asked me to keep an eye on her,” he says stiffly. 

 

“And why the hell would he trust a junkie like you to do it?” Jake sneers back. “You’re just a crackhead, Sam, you shouldn’t be touching innocent kids -”

 

Sam’s heart sinks and his stomach ties itself in knots, the amusement vanishing instantly. Because Jake is right - he _is_ a crackhead, he is a junkie, but all he wanted was a little bit of silence, a few moments of _quiet_ from the thoughts in his head -

 

“Jake, that’s enough,” Jess says sternly. “Leave Sam alone.”

 

“I’m not doing anything, Jess,” Jake retorts. “Except holdin’ the mirror up to Winchester here.” 

 

He turns to Claire, who mewls softly and presses into Sam’s side. 

 

“You, kid, shouldn't be hangin’ out with a druggie like this,” he says, “Mr. Newman probably doesn’t know how much of a freak Sam is, that’s why he made you sit with him… why don't you come and hang out with us, instead?” 

 

He moves to grab her arm and Claire lets out a little yelp, twining herself around Sam, who grabs Jake’s arm just before it can touch her. 

 

“Don’t touch her,” he snarls, “You have a problem wimme, Jake, I geddit. But stay the hell away from her.”

 

Jake sneers; by now, the rest of the class has stopped doing whatever they were doing and is watching them carefully, crowding around their desks like they’re daytime television. 

 

“You’re a _freak_ , Sam,” he hisses, “You aren’t gonna spread it to a kid, I won’t let -”

 

“Jake, please,” Jess cuts in pleadingly, “Please just -”

 

“He’s a crackhead and an asshole, Jess, why the heck are you still defending him?” Jake demands, “He broke your heart and now, he’s playing around with an innocent kid. Who knows what he’s gonna slip into her juice-box?”

 

Sam feels like throwing up; fuck, really? _Really?_

 

He’s so tense, he barely notices as Claire lets go of him, dropping into her seat. He jumps up, growling, because fuck, _yes_ , he’s an addict, but Jake seriously thinks he’s gonna give drugs to a _kindergartner_? 

 

What the _fuck_? 

 

“Shut up,” he growls, “Shut the hell up, Jake. You-”

 

“There it is,” Jake says triumphantly, “Angry little Sam Winchester, needs drugs to forget the shitfest of his life.” 

 

Sam clenches his fists, blood pounding through his ears; this isn’t _him_ , he _doesn’t_ pick fights, he doesn't retaliate - that’s Dean, not him. But right now, he’s strung inside out and the need to defend, to keep Claire safe is thrumming through him, _almost_ as strong as the vicious need to get high, to just fucking forget, for just one god _damned_ moment - 

 

The feel of Claire sliding down the chair and brushing against his legs distracts him and he glances down. The little girl has thrown herself off of her seat and is shivering against his legs, wrapping herself around them, ignoring the crowd, eyes suspiciously glassy. 

 

The wind sails out of Sam and he exhales deeply, looking away. Fuck, Jake and the rest of the class are assholes either way, why the hell does he care? 

 

He _expected_ this. 

 

So screw ‘em all. Take a page out of Dean’s book - Sam sure as hell wasn’t gonna make friends here, why does he care? 

 

Biting his lip, he looks straight at Jake and shakes his head.   “I’m sorry, Jake,” he says quietly, “I’m sorry I hurt your friend, I’m sorry I was an asshole. But you need to back the fuck off.” 

 

Jake glares, “Why?” he snaps, “So you can sink your paws into a kid like that? You’re a methhead, Sam, we can’t let you -”

 

“I _never_ did meth,” he snaps back, finally losing his patience. “And I’m _clean_. So get off your damn high horse and leave me and Claire the fuck alone. _You’re_ the one scaring her, not me.” 

 

Without waiting for his response, he bends down, gently touching Claire’s shoulder. She whimpers softly, looking up at him with teary eyes and he shakes his head, offering her his hand.  _ It’s okay,  _ he signs,  _ you don't have to be scared. I’ll keep you safe.  _

 

_ Da-Daddy, _ her hands shake and Sam holds back a curse, even as he hears the sharp gasps of the crowd around them. Apparently the kids have finally realized that she doesn’t speak and here he is again, Sam Winchester the mute freak. 

 

He ignores them in favor of smiling at Claire and tilts his head in question exactly like she did just a while back, hoping to put her at ease. 

 

_ Can I? _ He gestures to her and she pauses, brow furrowing in an expression that is as quizzical as it is hesitant, before she nods. He pats her reassuringly and then bends down to lift her up, carefully swinging her into the air. 

 

She yelps loudly, grabbing his arms and holding on tightly, but then giggles as he settles her on his shoulders. Tiny hands wrap around his neck, fingers grappling for purchase and he winces as she finds her center of gravity before sitting comfortably on top of him. 

 

“Comfy?” he grins up at her and she nods happily. Obviously, they can’t sign like this, but her fingers flex and then loosen as an indication of her comfort and he takes it as a sign that she’s okay. 

 

“You’re gonna hurt her -” Jake begins, but another, irritated female voice cuts him off. 

 

“Oh my god, shut up.”

 

The crowd turns as a whole to where a dark-haired girl stands, arms crossed across her chest. She’s wearing a run-down looking jacket and plaid beneath it, hair pulled back into a tight pony that drips down to her waist over one shoulder and she’s glaring at them. 

 

But that’s not what attracts Sam’s attention - it’s her hands as they clench and unclench in a familiar manner. He hasn’t seen her around before today.

 

“Stay outta this, Leahy,” Jake warns, speaking super slowly and facing her, “You’re new, you don’t -”

 

“I’m new, but not stupid,” the girl retorts and Sam’s heart jumps and he double takes at the way her mouth frames the words. 

 

This girl - Leahy - is _deaf_. The way Jake is treating her is further proof of it. 

 

“Eileen,” Jess begins and Eileen snorts. 

 

“You’re using that kid to bully Sam,” she points out, “Whatever happened, it isn't your business and Mr. Newman clearly doesn’t mind him being with the girl, so shut your trap.” 

 

Jake sneers, “And you’d know, wouldn't you, you dumbhead?”

 

Eileen rolls her eyes. “If you’re going to insult me, at least get it right,” she retorts, “I’m _deaf_ , not dumb. Moron.” 

 

Sam can't help the chuckle that escapes him; he doesn’t know this girl, but he finds himself absurdly grateful to her. Warm, brown eyes flicker over to glance at him momentarily before moving away. 

 

Before Jake can respond though, the bell rings, signalling the end of Newman’s class. Claire’s grip on his neck tightens and he looks up at her reassuringly, anticipating her question before she can ask it. 

 

“Wanna go find your Dad?” he asks, “Get outta here?” 

 

She nods immediately, casting a wary look at the gathered crowd, still tittering away and Sam sighs turning back to his desk, wondering how to pack up with Claire still on his shoulders. He doesn’t want to quite let her down and he has a feeling she doesn’t want to come down either - the way her fingers tighten around his skin is proof of her feeling safe sitting like that. 

 

“Winchester,” Jake growls and Eileen jumps in, pushing him back. Sam blinks in surprise; the black boy’s back is turned to her now. Isn’t she deaf? How did she read his lips then?

 

“Just let it go, Talley,” she snaps, “Mr. Newman doesn’t have a problem, and you can stuff it.” 

 

“You-”

 

“Jake, please,” Jess sighs, “Please let’s just go.” 

 

He looks at her and the blonde’s expression is tired. Sam feels another flash of guilt, but swallows it down ruthlessly - _he_ deserves Jess’s anger, and maybe even Jake’s, but Claire has nothing to do with it. Even if he was right to worry about the kindergartner hanging out with the town addict, he didn't have to scare her in the process. 

 

“Fine,” he mutters, shooting Sam one last glare. “This isn't over, Winchester.” 

 

Before Sam can reply, he turns around and stomps away. Jess shoots him an apologetic look and follows him, the rest of the crowd quickly dispersing after that. 

 

“Okay, shall I pack your stuff as well?” he asks Claire softly. She nods down quickly, and leans her head over his, hugging his shoulders tightly, as though she’s riding a horse. 

 

“Let me help,” Eileen’s voice comes from behind him and Sam jumps, startled. Claire lets out a tiny yelp, fingers yanking at his shaggy hair and he winces at the sudden pain in his scalp. 

 

“Uh, I-” he stammers, turning around and she smiles at him, raising an eyebrow. 

 

“Eileen Leahy,” she says. “Nice to meet you.” 

 

He’s not sure if she can hear or not - the entire confrontation with Jake too confusing. But just in case, he slows down and makes sure she’s able to see him when he speaks. 

 

“Sam Winchester,” he says. “This is Mr. Newman’s daughter, Claire.”

 

She grins widely, offering her hand. “Nice to meet you,” she says. Looking up at CLaire, she raises her hands confidently, meeting the child’s widening eyes without hesitation. 

 

_ Hello,  _ she signs,  _ My name is Eileen.  _

 

She spells it out in ASL and Claire giggles, tilting her head in a manner that Sam is beginning to recognize as that inherited from her dad. He  turns back to the books, reaching out with one unsteady hand to pick at them. His other hand is holding Claire’s leg to keep her safe and Eileen catches his outstretched palm, slapping it away. He stares at her in confusion. 

 

“What?” he says irritatedly. 

 

“I’ll help,” she says, and before he can say anything, she’s quickly pulled his books together and stuffed them into his backpack. He stares in surprise as she gathers Claire’s things too and it’s only now, standing so close to her that he sees the Cochlear Implant sticking out the side of her ear. 

 

So she _is_ deaf, or at least partially. The Implant must help her attend high school. 

 

Sighing, Sam smiles at her as she hands him his backpack as well as Claire’s. Dropping one hand from Claire’s leg, he brings it to his mouth and drags it out, saying _thank you_ in ASL and she grins back. 

 

_You’re welcome,_ she signs. _It’s nice to speak to someone like this._

 

He grins back, nodding. 

 

“My brother taught me,” he says, “Back when… well, a while back.” 

 

She doesn’t push, doesn’t ask and he finds himself grateful for that. Instead, she simply squeezes his arm and smiles.  “Alright,” she says, “It was nice to meet you, Sam.” 

 

_I’ll see you,_ she signs at Claire who offers her a tiny wave from atop Sam’s head. Without another word, she bounds out, grabbing her own backpack from her desk before walking out the room, humming lightly. 

 

Her confidence is overwhelming and Sam smiles up at Claire, who leans her chin against the top of his head. 

 

“Let’s go find your Dad,” he tells her and she nods, shakily pulling her hands from his neck to quickly sign.  _ Okay _ , her palms return to his shoulders almost immediately and he bounces a little, earning himself a startled, happy shriek. 

 

“You're on top of the world, Claire,” he teases, “Enjoy the ride.” 

 

She giggles, hugging him and he walks out, not caring that his next class is probably already under way. 

 

Because, he thinks, he might have just made a new friend. And it isn't just Claire. 

  
Maybe school won't be so bad, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER THOUGHTS -
> 
> I actually had a LOT more planned for this chapter but it was getting way too long and I had to cut it short. I hope y'all don't mind the super long chapters, apparently my brain can't shut up! :P I've already got a jump start on the next bit, it's slightly more angsty, but more fluff with Sam and the girls too! 
> 
> On a side note, some shameless self-promotion! My SPN Reversebang is [up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9808658), go check it out and show my [artist](http://arandin.deviantart.com/art/Across-the-Borderlands-664313415?ga_submit_new=10%3A1487445551) some love! I really enjoyed working on it this year, even if I did have to cut it short to meet my posting date. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed this one, I'll see you in two weeks! Comment and lemme know if there's anything you feel like I've missed in the tags or warnings... or y'know, just drop a comment and let's chat on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dusky-gold)!


	11. Promises Broken and (Re)Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam meets Emma in the aftermath of a misunderstanding, while an ugly face from the past reappears in front of Dean. In the meantime, Gabriel and Balthazar find a second body. Angsty fluff in the middle, but mostly angst. Tissue warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I missed not only the Sunday deadline, but also the promised postponed deadline, I decided to do a much longer one for you guys! It's almost twice the size of my average chapters and hasn't been beta'ed since I wanted to get it out there ASAP, so lemme know if you catch any errors!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS - Mentions of drug and rehab, recollections of torture, graphic descriptions of violence and death and murder and blood/torture, slight sibling rivalry, recollections of turning tricks and dubious consent and prostitution

**Chapter 10 - Promises Broken and (Re)Made**

 

It’s at the end of the day that Sam notices the three crayons lying in his bag. He’s digging through his backpack, trying to find his Math textbook when he sees them - Eileen must have dropped them inside his bag by mistake. All three are different shades of blue and the remainder of Claire makes him smile.

 

Mr. Newman was just walking out of Principal Tran’s office when he carried Claire there; his new English teacher thanked him profusely and wrote a note for his next class so that he wouldn't be penalized.

 

Claire, who jumped off of Sam’s back with surprising ease, yanked on his pants and placed a quick kiss on his cheek. He’d ruffled her hair, pulling her pigtail gently before shaking hands with a relieved Mr. Newman, who told him that he was welcome to stop by anytime Sam wanted, especially if he needed help with his work.

 

Straightening up, Sam decides that he will take up the dark-haired man on his offer - he’ll go and drop off Claire’s crayons with her father and ask him if the man has any ideas on catching up with the syllabus. Sam’s not actually worried about the work, but he doesn’t want to go home early and face the silence and the burning need, the ache and himself and hanging out with Claire seems like a fun thing.

 

Damn, but his life is upside down if the nicest friend he’s made all of today is a kindergartner.

 

Shrugging away the irritation, he grabs the textbook he’s been searching for and sits stiffly, forcing himself to pay attention to Ms. Mildred’s lecture on logarithms. The hour passes by quickly, and before he knows it, Sam is walking towards Mr. Newman’s classroom, smiling in anticipation of seeing the blonde kid again.

 

He raises his hand to knock; strangely enough, the door is partially closed, with only a little space between the hinge and the knob, as though someone meant to shut it fully but forgot to do so in a hurry.

 

He freezes, however, when he hears his name being called inside.

 

“His name is Sam, Missouri,” Mr. Newman’s voice is tight and irritated, and Sam’s heart sinks.

 

He _knows_ that tone - he’s heard it from every parent who would order their kid to stay away from the Winchester freak. He’s heard it from almost every single teacher he’s spoken to today, starting with Mr. Harry, whose class he missed half of because he was looking after Mr. Newman’s daughter.

 

He should’ve fucking known that this guy wouldn't be different. He’s used to this mix of pity and disgust - why the _hell_ does it hurt now?

 

Swallowing hard, he turns to go, when he hears something else.

 

“No, I don't regret anything, because Sam… Sam helped Claire today,” Sam wonders if he can hear a slight inflection of worry and gratitude in his voice, and he pauses, cautiously tilting his head to get listen better.

 

“Yeah… Claire’s still upset from Halloween… it’s strange, Sam helped her today and Dean protected her that day. It seems like the Winchesters are bound to keeping my girls safe.”

 

There is a slight raspy chuckle that Sam realizes is Mr. Newman’s laugh and his breath hitches as what the man is saying sinks in.

 

_Dean_ met Claire - Dean _protected_ Claire. Somehow, somewhere, the same night that Sam was panicking and freaking out… the _same_ night that Dean punched him and was beating himself up, even then… even then, his big brother managed to save an innocent little girl from some kind of danger.

 

And Dean thinks he’s worthless. Sam wonders if he’ll ever be able to tell his brother just how amazing he really is.

 

Newman pauses, and Sam realizes that he has to be on the phone - there’s no response, but the conversation continues.

 

“I don't regret saving Dean, Missouri,” Mr. Newman sounds absolutely exhausted, “But I’m worried… the local sheriff came to interrogate me in school today - for _murder_ . Somehow, Dean and his brother are mixed up with the victim - a Gordon Walker - and I don't know… I _can't_ be involved-”

 

The world is too small, his chest too tight - where’s the oxygen? Fuck, why _can’t_ he breathe, why does his entire side _ache_ ? Why, why, _why_ -

 

The need, the burn to shoot up, to _forget_ , to run after that blessed, _blessed_ silence inside his head, returns, rears its head up, and it takes Sam a long, heavy moment to realize that he’s running, _fuck_ , he’s _running_ and he doesn't know if he’s running towards or away from the drugs.

 

Because Dean is _hiding_ things from him again. Because fucking Gordon is _dead_ , and somehow, Dean is caught up in it, somehow, Sam’s English teacher saved him and is now mixed up with everything.

 

Bad enough that Dean knew about Crowley and put himself through hell to repay Sam’s drug debt - now, Gordon is dead, murdered, which means Dean is a fucking suspect in a murder investigation, Dean is in danger, _danger -_

 

And because Mr. Newman helped him, he’s in danger too, _Claire_ is in danger -

 

This -

 

This is fucking why he can _never_ talk, why he _shouldn't_ be allowed to talk, why Dean and Claire and fucking everyone should steer clear off of him. Crowley’s name slipped out in delirium, when Sam was fucking high under the bleachers, before the man himself approached Dean - _Sam_ brought him to their doorstep, and now _Dean’s_ gonna pay the price.

 

Again.

 

He runs and he runs and he _runs_ , he has no idea where he’s going, but all he knows is that he has to _forget_ , he _has_ to just forget - he wants something strong, something to burn its way into his system and take it away, but he can't, he _won't -_

 

He won't go there, even if the burn is now searing, even if he needs it -

 

Dean… _Dean._

 

He forces the image of his brother into his head as he races outside the school, races past the parking lot, races past the city, past everything and everyone, just running -

 

He doesn't know how long he runs, but he doesn't stop until the burning in his side becomes too painful to ignore and his legs feel like jelly. The physical ache, however, does little to distract from the phantom burn of the needle, and he wants - more than anything he’s ever wanted - to shoot up, to forget.

 

But he can't - he _won't_.

 

So he bends over his knees instead, and tried to focus on the pain shooting through his left side from running too much too suddenly. His calves are burning too, as are his legs and he stretches out, popping his back and breathing heavily as he looks around to see where the hell he is.

 

In front of him, there are swings and merry-go-rounds and slides, and with a start, Sam realizes that he’s run to the park - the one that’s right behind Bobby’s garage. In his fit, he didn't even notice running past Dean’s workplace and he winces, hoping brother Bobby nor Dean saw him.

 

The playground is overrun with kids, being that it’s around four in the evening, the sun slowly sinking past the horizon. He’s tired, but his mind is buzzing with too much, too many thoughts, so he chooses to go sit on one of the park benches, trying to distract himself with the kids.

 

He doesn’t know why, but they calm him. Maybe its their innocence, maybe it’s a leftover good feeling from spending the morning with an essentially optimistic - if traumatized - kid, maybe it’s that he sees a life in them that was taken away from him with Mom’s death. Whatever the reason, just watching them makes him feel like he can ignore that phantom burn, that need to forget a bit longer.

 

So he sits and he watches, reclining against the park bench. Fortunately, he’s managed to drag his backpack along his mad chase, and he grabs his headphones from inside them, jamming them into his ears and playing loud music so that no one will disturb him or think he’s a creep staring at their kids.

 

Soft, classical piano - that Dean would so mock him for, but his brother’s tastes are only Zeppelin and Metallica, so Sam ignores him - tickles at his ears and he sighs, letting his body become boneless as he stares at the merry-go-round, where a young boy, maybe four years old, is trying to climb on to it and push it around.

 

God, he is so _tired_. He wants silence and peace, he just wants it all to fade away. He wants this feeling of slimy not-rightness to go away, he wants to roughhouse with his brother, he wants Bill to not be dead and Dad to not be an asshole and he wants Mom back.

 

He wants Dean to live his life - he wants to live his own life.

 

But Winchesters are cursed, they’re fucking screwed and the thought brings tears to his eyes. Dad left, Sam’s eyes burn, just walked out -

 

_This_ is why he walked out.

 

Because Sam is such a monumental fuck-up, such an idiot. He couldn't keep his mouth shut, he had to go and yell at Dad on the phone because he wasn’t showing up for a PTA meeting, and he killed Bill.

 

No wonder Dad walked out - he didn't even wait to see Sam after the accident, didn't even explain that he was leaving, that he was going away.

 

All there was a stupid, dumb letter which was fluttering away on the table when Dean came home from the garage one day (having already dropped out of college), soon after Sam stopped talking and took to hiding in his room. Right after the funeral, and John Winchester left a letter - a fucking _letter_ \- to tell his sons that he was walking out on them, along with the legal papers that would offer custody of Sam to Dean.

His elder brother didn't even think twice, simply grabbing a pen to dot the _i’s_ and cross the _t’s._ And that was that.

 

*-*-*

 

It _would_ happen here, in the damned grocery store of all the places in the world.

 

Castiel curses as Emma throws the cereal box on the floor, where it lands with a loud thwack. Fortunately, the packaging doesn’t break and it lands harmlessly, but it startles Claire enough that she winces and yelps. In retrospect, he should’ve seen this coming - Emma’s been angry all day, annoyed that she couldn't come to Castiel’s class with her. She hates being left behind by her sister.

 

“I don’ like this one!” she yells, pointing to the cereal box she’s just thrown to the ground and glares at Claire, who flinches but glares back just as angrily.

 

_Em, they’re my favorite,_ she signs back; her movements are shaky, indicating that she’s as scared as she is annoyed, but she doesn’t back down.

 

“Girls,” he begins, but they ignore him, forging right on with their argument.

 

“Why d’we always get what _you_ want?” Emma cries and they’re beginning to attract attention now. The 24-hour convenience is not as crowded it would usually be, but there are still a few customers around and a number of the women are beginning to stare at him with sympathetic, pitying looks on their faces.

 

“Da-ddy, you took Claiwe to school, you buy _my_ cereal!” she demands and Claire grabs sets her hands on her hips and glares her younger sister down.

 

_We can get both, Emma,_ she signs sternly, _Daddy -_

 

“I want mine!” Emma screams, “I want it! Don’ tell me what to do!”

 

“Girls, that’s enough,” Castiel calls, voice stern and firm. “Emma, you’re causing a scene, listen to your sister-”

 

“You always take her side!” the three-year old cries. Before he can say anything else, she picks up the cereal box and throws it at him. He dodges it easily, but Claire, so far doing okay, goes still, her entire body shrinking into itself, the beginnings of a panic attack coming on.

 

_Shit._

 

Cursing quietly, he bends down to pick up the cereal box, turning to yell at Emma -

 

\- only to find her already running down the aisle and out the grocery store, sobbing and crying as she shakes her fist at anyone in her way.

 

Claire whimpers, eyes glassy and Castiel quickly snatches her up, settling her on his hip as he abandons the grocery cart right in the middle of the store, following after Emma. God, he’s exhausted, all he wants is to crawl into bed and sleep for a week. If only parenting came with a snooze button.

 

Claire’s clawing at his shirt, fingers grappling for purchase, but Castiel can't do anything, he can't help, he _has_ to find Emma -

 

He’s being torn in two directions, his elder daughter crying and panicking in his arms, and the other out there on the street in a possibly dangerous situation. His pulse is a jackhammer as he offers Claire a tight squeeze, holding her close as he races out the grocery store. Emma is fast, even on stubby little legs, and he sees that she’s already out of the store, running down the sidewalk and dodging adults.

 

“Emma!” he cries out and Claire blanches in his arms, mewling lightly. She struggles against his grip, her panic mounting and he stumbles as she pushes back against him, kicking at his side.

 

“Claire, baby, one minute,” he pants, trying to hold her up - Emma’s already disappeared into the streets, lost in the crowds and now, he’s panicking, heart thundering in his chest. “Claire -”

 

She moans and pinches his side; he yelps and his grip loosens and she slides down, hanging on to his knees. She doesn’t let him go, but it slows him down and _fuck_ , how is he supposed to stop now, Emma’s running, Emma’s _lost_ , but _Claire_ -

 

“Claire,” he pants, “Claire, love, I am here, I love you,” he tells her urgently, “But listen, Emma’s running, I need you to be strong now, okay? Claire, baby, please -”

 

He’s on his knees and begging her; he can't leave her now, can't leave her like this, but Emma - _Emma -_

 

His panic is mounting as Claire cries softly.

 

“Claire,” he begs.

 

She mewls again but looks up slowly, shoulders shaking as she meets his gaze tearfully.

 

_Em-em?_ Her hands are shaking hard, but Castiel’s heart stutters and he bends down.

 

“Em, yes,” he says, “Claire, she’s running out there, she could be in danger… _please_ , love?”

 

_Danger?_

 

Her movements become suddenly firm and she wraps her arms around his neck, hanging off him. He sighs, straightening up and settles her on his hip comfortably.

 

“I’m sorry, Claire,” he murmurs, “We’ll be home soon, I promise.”

 

He doesn’t let her hear the worry in his voice, doesn’t let her see the panic - if he can't _find_ Emma, if she’s gone too far -

 

No, he can't think that way. She’s just three years old, she can't have run that far. Granted, it’s close to rush hour in the evening, but even with that, he doesn’t think she could’ve moved too far.

 

_Unless_ she’s been kidnapped - unless something’s _happened_ , unless she’s hurt, she’s wounded -

 

Fuck.

 

Castiel literally swallows the panic down; he won't let himself think like that, he won't let himself start freaking out - he can fall apart after he’s found Emma, he needs to find her now. This is Sioux Falls, it’s safe, it’s home, he doesn’t have to worry about kidnappers and murderers here, only normal danger like cars running people over.

 

Fuck, when did that become so screwed up that he’d rather take a dangerous car accident than the hint of a drug trade?

 

Claire pinches his neck to get his attention and he spares her a slight glance as he crossed the street, eyes scanning the vicinity carefully, spine straight and alert.

 

_Pa-park,_ she signs. Castiel frowns, cutting his way through the small crowd milling on the sidewalk.

 

“Emma!” he calls again and Claire grabs his shoulder forcefully. He glares down at her; she shrinks but doesn’t quite back down.

 

_Daddy, park!_ She points to the park opposite them, eyes wide and Castiel stares, realization flooding into his head. It’s the same park that they were at just a few days ago, on Halloween morning - it makes sense that Emma might have run there, since it is the only familiar place she knows around here.

 

“Yeah, baby,” he makes his tone as apologetic as possible but Claire doesn’t answer, simply goes limp in his arms, hiding her face in his shirt. Sighing, he rubs her back soothingly as he strides into the park, looking here and there in a furtive manner for the tiny redhead whom he’s managed to lose.

 

*-*-*

 

It’s beginning to get dark when Sam sees her. The park has begun to clear out, the section in front of him emptying as the air becomes chilled, and that’s when she shows up.

 

She’s a small little girl, with a head full of red hair, dressed in pants and a shirt, without even a jacket on. It’s getting close to winter, she must be cold, but she doesn’t seem to care - she simply stomps up to a tree and begins to kick at it, yelling in frustration.

 

“Stupid Claiwe,” she cries, kicking the tree. “Stupid _Da-ddy_.”

 

Sam jumps up, a strange laughter bubbling in his throat; who the _hell_ is this kid? She looks like a tiny Valkyrie, her expression arranged into one of absolute rage, red pigtails flying either way as she continues to kick. As he walks closer, he can see that she isn't just angry, she’s also crying, fat tears pouring down flushed cheeks.

 

“Da-ddy,” she cries. “Da-ddy.”

 

Sam bends down next to her, reaching out to place his hand on her shoulder. She whirls around, huffing and glares up at him through reddened and puffy green eyes and he blinks at how much like a pissed-off Dean she looks.

 

“Hey there,” he says, “Are you lost?”

 

“I’m fineeee!” she screeches, turning her back on him. “G’away!”

 

“I’m sorry if I disturbed you,” Sam says carefully, “But it’s getting dark. And cold… we should find your parents, don't you think?”

 

She whirls right back and puts her hands to her hips, pouting angrily. “I don’ want them!” she yells, “Da-ddy has Claiwe, he doesn’t want me!”

 

The fight seems to go out of her at that outburst and she starts crying quietly, sinking to the ground, leaning against the tree. Sam sighs, hands hovering over her shoulder, before he retracts them and seats himself next to her, drawing his knees up to his chest. Her cries are earnest and heartbroken, and for a minute, he finds himself wanting to join her, his own body exhausted from the panic and the running and the need he’s been pushing back all day.

 

“Why wouldn't you Dad want you?” he asks softly. He doesn’t look at her, but stares up at the sky instead, watching the darkening blue of the sky as the sun’s light fades. The early stars twinkle down at him and he feels that age-old burn of Dad’s abandonment, the statement echoing where the need _burns_ , where the ache hurts -

 

All he wanted was for Dad to love them, for Mom to come back. Dean has the memories of a life with a good Dad, Sam doesn’t know if such thing ever existed.

 

It hurts.

 

“He took Claiwe to his school today,” she sniffles next to him. Sam’s hair flops into his face as he twists his head to look at her.

 

Her Dad took _Claire_ to school today?

 

That can’t mean -

 

“ _His_ school?” he asks cautiously. “Doesn’t Claire have a school of her own?”

 

The redhead nods, wheezing lightly as a sob escapes her lips. “She’s in kinega’ten. I’m in pwe-school.”

 

“And your Dad?”

 

“He teaches hi-high school,” she mumbles, shoulders shaking, confirming Sam’s suspicions and he goes taut with the realization.

 

Oh hell.

 

This is _Mr. Newman’s_ daughter. It has to be - how many Claires exist in the area whose Dads taught high school, who took them to class with him? It has to be him.

 

Which means that this is his younger daughter, _Claire’s_ younger sister. Sam holds back a curse, feeling a flash of sympathy light his chest for his new English teacher. The man seems to be struggling with two little girls on his own - where’s their mom?

 

“You know,” he murmured conversationally, trying to draw her out, “My Dad and I never get along either.”

 

The girl glances at him out of the corner of her eyes, but doesn’t say anything. Sam ignores her, turning his gaze back to the skies, where the sun’s completely vanished and the stars are becoming more visible by the second.

 

“He’s a bit of an ass,” Sam continues, “And he doesn’t always show that he cares. But…” He looks down at her, offering her a small smile. “I’m sure he’d miss me if I left.”

 

Because that is true - John Winchester is a shit dad, a craptastic excuse of a father, but in the end, he _has_ always tried to do the best he can. Even walking out on them, even signing custody over to Dean -

 

_I’m leaving,_ Sam remembers from the letter, _because I’m obviously not capable of looking after you like you need it. You’re better off without me, Sam. Dean, I know you’ll look after your brother. I’m going to continue my bounty hunting, I’ll call you in a couple weeks once the papers have been processed._

 

Short. To the point. Gruff and emotionless, almost militant. And still, beneath it, waves of concern that John Winchester couldn't quite articulate, quite explain… because Sam _heard_ it, heard the mad gaggling in the car, the worry and the panic and the concern.

 

It isn’t that Dad doesn’t care; it’s just that Dad doesn’t know _how_ to care. And Sam doesn’t think he can ever forgive Dad for taking the easy way out, for just leaving when he should’ve stayed and fought his way through the madness that was Sam’s mutism.

 

Because it wasn’t entirely his fault, but that was the straw that broke the camel’s back - Dad stayed until _Sam_ went quiet, and no matter how many times he tries to push down the hurt and the anger and the doubt and the self-blame, it doesn’t quite go away.

 

“Da-ddy has Claiwe,” the girl mumbles again, looking away. And suddenly, it strikes Sam - Claire’s mutism obviously means that Mr. Newman often has to put her needs first, help her through her panic attacks and the like, not because he loves her more, but because Claire’s trauma isn’t easy to navigate. Having a second parent around would help, but he seems to be raising  them on his own.

 

How often has this little girl felt the lack of attention?

 

And how much time does Mr. Newman get to himself?

 

He’s living the life that _Dean_ does - forging through his family’s pain and problems, refusing to take a look at himself.

 

It hurts Sam, because Dean has him, Dean should be able to _depend_ on him - and he did, until _Sam_ went and fucked it up with the drugs.

 

He takes a deep breath, reaching out to gently squeeze her shoulder. She looks up at him, tears rolling down her face and hiccups.

 

“Just because your Daddy brought Claire to his school,” he tells her, “Doesn’t mean that he loves you any less. I’m sure he’d be sad if you went away.”

 

She whimpers nosily and then throws herself at him, hugging him tightly and sobbing into his shirt. Sam’s startled, almost pulling back, before he hesitantly bands his arms around her and gently soothes her.

 

“It’s okay,” he says softly.

 

“Da-ddy,” she cries, “I wan’ Da-ddy.”

 

Before he can respond, though, a loud, familiar voice cuts through the air.

 

“Emma!”

 

Sam’s head whirls around to see Mr. Newman standing close to the merry-go-round, frantically looking for his daughter. He’s holding Claire, who has her face buried in his shirt and even from this distance, Sam can see the way she’s shaking.

 

“Over here,” he calls. The girl in his arms - _Emma_ \- startles, and pushed back, sniffling, her expression still angry and annoyed, and Sam has the urge to chuckle.

 

“Sam?” Mr. Newman sounds surprised as he hurries up to them. Next to him, Emma gets to her feet and glares at her father.

 

“Emma!” his voice is stern, angry, and his expression is one of utter exhaustion. “ _Why_ would you just run off like that?” he snaps. “You know better than, what if something had happened to you?” his voice steadily rises and Emma flinches.

 

“I don’ care!” she yells back, “You don’ want me!” she turns her back deliberately on them, and leans into the tree, shoulders shaking.

 

Claire whimpers in Mr. Newman’s arms and he sighs, running his hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose.

 

“Claire,” he mutters, “One minute, baby,” he drops to one knee and sets her down on the ground. She looks down, her gaze focused on her legs and Sam feels his gut tighten with a rush of protectiveness.

 

“Hey,” he calls and she looks up at the familiar voice, “Hi Claire.”

 

_Sa-Sam?_ she signs shakily and he nods, smiling softly.

 

“Nice to see you again,” he mutters. Surprising him, she crawls over quickly and climbs into his lap, settling comfortably and burying her face in his shirt. He looks up, barely catching the look of surprise on her father’s face before the man schools his expression into one of neutrality.

 

“Emma,” he says instead, “Em, come on, let’s go home -”

 

Emma whirls around, scowling. “I don’ wanna go!” she snaps. “You don’ want me!” she sounds perilously close to tears again.

 

“You know that’s not true, Emma,” Mr. Newman snaps back, “I love you, now come on, don't -”

 

“You not even my Da-ddy!” she bursts out, “You Claiwe’s Da-ddy, not _mine_!” she sniffles, crumpling to the floor and Mr. Newman rushes forward, picking her up and hugging her to him instantly.

 

Sam’s eyes go wide with the realization and he looks away uncomfortably. For all that he understands the mutism and recognizes the ache, Emma’s reaction is a forceful reminder of the fact that he is - essentially - a stranger. He met them just today, he can’t be involved in a scene as personal as this one.

 

As if reading his mind, Mr. Newman shoots him a wary look, but doesn’t address him, simply murmuring into his daughter's ears. Claire sniffles in his arms and Sam looks down to see her crying quietly.

 

“Em,” Mr. Newman sounds exhausted and it reminds him of Dean so much, Sam’s own eyes are burning.

 

“Emma, it doesn’t matter,” he frames the little girl’s face and rubs away the tears with his thumbs. “I’ve loved you since the day you were born. It doesn’t matter that I’m not your biological dad, you’re still my baby girl.”

 

“Da-ddy,” she hiccups, “I’m sowwy,” she whispers, her expression one of contrition.

 

Mr. Newman sighs, shoulders slumping and Sam can see the tension draining out of him physically.

 

“Promise me never to run out like that again,” he says sternly and she nods, chewing her bottom lip carefully.

 

“Pwomise,” she sniffles and then climbs out of his lap to stumble over to Sam. “What’s youa name, mista?” she asks.

 

“That’s Sam,” Mr. Newman answers, “he helped your sister in class today.”

 

Emma looks up at him, all wide eyes and hair falling into her face, and for a second, Sam is taken aback by how familiar she looks. He blinks and the notion fades from his mind.

 

“Nice to meet’cha,” she mumbles and Sam grins at her, Claire twisting in his arms.

 

“And you,” he says, “See, I told you your dad would miss you if you ran away.”

 

Emma pouts, burying her face in her father’s chest, turning her head and Mr. Newman shrugs.

 

“Come on girls,” Sam’s heart lifts in sympathy at the weariness in his voice. “It’s time we were getting home. We still need to get those groceries.”

 

Claire’s soft whimper distracts Sam and he looks down to see that she’s still got that glassy expression in her eyes, as though she’s about to start crying any second. Mr. Newman makes a strangled noise in his throat, as though Claire’s hurt hurts him.

 

“Lemme help,” Sam blurts out and then winces; what the _hell_ is he doing?

 

“Sam?” the man asks confusedly and the teenager offers him a sheepish smile.

 

“I can help you guys home?” he phrases it as a question, offering his teacher the possibility of denying it if he wants to. He has a feeling that the man needs an illusion of control at the moment, and if he can offer this much, then Sam is determined to do it. Besides, the longer he can put off going home, the longer he can hide from the fact that Dean’s apparently keeping secrets from him again.

 

Mr. Newman pauses, eyeing him carefully. Sam flushes; just because _he_ wants to help, it doesn’t mean that the offer will be received well. After all, which adult wants a drug-addicted teenager to interact with their kindergartners?

 

But his new teacher surprises him again.

 

“Are you certain?” he asks, “I do not wish to cause you trouble -”

 

“It’s cool,” he cuts in, “My brother won't be home from work until 7 anyway. And I can catch up on homework after dinner.”

 

The look of gratitude Mr. Newman shoots him is so profound, Sam pauses for a second.

 

“Thank you,” he mutters, “Claire?”

 

The young girl, still in Sam’s arms, simply clings tighter to him and the teenager stands up, picking her up carefully. She doesn’t let go, and he feels honored by the faith she seems to have in him, despite having met him just today. Emma doesn't say anything, but eyes him with a strange expression on her face before turning away and resting her head on her dad’s shoulder.

 

“You’re welcome, Mr. Newman,” he says.

 

Half an hour later, they’re done with the shopping and pulling up in front of Mr. Newman’s house. Claire clung to him the entire time they were inside the store, Emma riding her dad’s back like a baby monkey as he apologized to the store owner for the outburst and they way they’d run out. The older woman simply smiled and told him to take care, and then, Sam was ushered into the family van.

 

It’s the abandoned cottage a couple streets over, Sam is surprised to note. He can’t remember anyone ever staying here, it’s been empty for as long as they’ve been in Sioux Falls. Well, no longer apparently. He hasn’t been this side of town since he got outta the centre; the place looks clean and spruced up, even if the front yard still seems a bit run down and in need of maintenance.

 

“I’ll just get them inside,” Mr. Newman says as Sam hovers awkwardly at the doorway, Claire still clinging to him.

 

“I can, I just-” he begins, but the man’s already opening the door, jiggling the keys with a kid on his shoulder. Emma’s fallen asleep, he sees, Claire nearly so, drowsing against his chest as he follows her dad inside.

 

The insides are much neater, the walls painted a soft off-blue that’s almost a white color. The narrow corridor opens up into a living room that’s quite big and on the side, Sam catches a glimpse of the kitchen. Right next to it, there’s a set of stairs - probably the bedrooms, he surmises. His suspicions are confirmed as Mr. Newman head straight there.

 

“I’ll put them to bed,” he says, keeping his voice soft so as to not wake the already sleeping Emma. he holds his other arm out for Claire and Sam steps closer, carefully settling the girl in her father’s embrace.

 

Mr. Newman handles both of them at once quite expertly. Claire hiccups softly, but then snuggles into his shoulder and goes back to drowsing.

 

“I’ll be right down,” he says and then jogs up the stairs, holding both his girls and Sam lingers awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs, wondering if he should just leave.

 

He turns to go, when a flash of red catches his eye. He pauses for a moment, debating it, and then deciding that Mr. Newman hasn’t thrown him out yet, so he’s probably okay  with him hanging around, he walks over to the mantelpiece.

 

Right on top of the mantlepiece sits a photograph - Claire’s face dimples with a shy grin in her father’s arms. She’s barely older than a toddler, around three or four years old, looking tiny and adorable. But that isn’t what gives Sam a start; next to Mr. newman stands a shorter, beautiful young woman with the brightest red hair he’s ever seen. There’s a bundle wrapped up in a yellow blanket that’s decorated with bees and she’s leaning into Mr. Newman’s side trustingly, grinning back at the camera.

 

_That’s Emma,_ he realizes. Emma and the missing mother, whom Mr. Newman obviously loves, the way he’s smiling.

 

What the fuck is Sam doing here? Whatever the reason for Claire not talking, he has no right to this, to their personal lives. It’s none of his goddamned business, but Sam can’t help his curiosity - where is the redheaded woman? Who is Emma’s real dad if not Mr. Newman?

 

“Emma’s inherited her mother’s looks, hasn’t she?”

 

Sam whirls around, startled, to see his English teacher walking back towards him. He steps back immediately, knowing that this picture - like the one he and Dean have of Mary Winchester on their mantlepiece - is probably the most precious thing the man owns.

 

“Your wife’s beautiful,” he answers.

 

Mr. Newman starts and then chuckles, shaking his head. “She’s not my wife,” he responds.

 

Sam winces, shrugging sheepishly. “Sorry,” he offers and the dark-haired man simply shakes his head.

 

“You couldn't have known,” he says simply. “Besides my sister would be tickled to know that she was mistaken to be my wife; she’d lord it over my head if…” he trails away and Sam swallows.

 

So Emma is his _neice_. And yet, he’s raising her, so something must have happened to his sister - he’s taken custody of a child not his own, despite already struggling with his own difficulties.

 

Just like Dean.

 

“You can ask,” Mr. Newman says suddenly. Sam blinks, confused.

 

“Ask?”

 

“About the girls’ mother,” there’s an awkwardness to his tone, as though he isn't used to talking about it and Sam shakes his head.

 

“You don't owe me anything, Mr. Newman,” he replies and the look that he shoots him is a strange one, charged with words and feelings Sam can’t quite place.

 

“But I do, Sam,” comes the murmured response. “You and your brother keep saving my girls, whether by providence or by design. It seems only right to give you my gratitude.”

 

“Yeah well, you’ve been grilled by Jody for saving my brother, it’s the least I can do,” he scoffs. Mr. Newman stares at him and it takes him a moment to realize what he’s said. Sam flushes, pursing his lips as the teacher eyes him, suddenly wary.

 

“How do you know that?” he demands, “No one except me, the Sheriff and Principal Tran know that I was called in today for an interrogation, you can't know that even if Dean told you about the fight.”

 

Sam shrugs, but doesn't lie.

 

“I overheard your conversation on the gone,” he admits quietly; he can feel the tips of his ears going red in embarrassment. “I came to return Claire’s crayons, but you were talking and I didn't wanna disturb you and…” he shrugs again and Mr. Newman frowns.

 

“I see,” he says, voice tight.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sam mutters, “It was an accident. I’m not… wait, did you say _fight_?”

 

The blue-eyed man scowls, nodding. “I was walking by the alleyway behind the Roadhouse when I saw your brother being beaten up. I went to help him. It turns out that the man attacking him - a Gordon Walker? - has been murdered.”

 

Sam’s heart hitches as the memory flashes across his face - of Dean, the day after he came home.

 

“When was this?” he asks, the lump in his throat so tight he can hardly breathe.

 

“Exactly a week ago today,” the man answers shortly, “Sam, you-”

 

“The night before I came home,” Sam whispers, feeling his eyes burn. For a long moment, there’s no sound but that of the heavy, loud silence and Sam looks up to see Mr. Newman looking at him with a strangely knowing expression on his face.

 

“Sam,” he says in a low voice, “I cannot say I understand how you feel… but if you need anything…” he leaves the question open-ended.

 

Sam nods, “Thank you,” he says quietly. “And I’m sorry, I didn't mean to eavesdrop, I just…” he shrugs and Mr. Newman tilts his head in acquiescence.

 

“Midterms are in a couple of weeks,” he says. “If you need help or if there’s anything you don't understand…”

 

“Thank you,” Sam repeats. “I’ma get…” he gestures towards the door and Mr. Newman steps aside, leaving way for him to leave.

 

“No, Sam,” he replies, “Thank _you_. If you hadn't been around today… Emma and Claire…” he trails off, but the look on his face is telling enough. Losing his girls, Sam can tell, is his worst nightmare.

 

Just like losing Dean is his worst nightmare - which is why Sam is _done_.

 

He is so done with Dean keeping secrets, done with Dean trying to protect him. Sam doesn’t need protection, he wants to _help_ his brother, he wants to keep his brother alive, no matter what.

 

He’s going to fucking march home and demand that Dean tell him the truth. Because if Crowley is back (who _else_ could’ve had Gordon murdered?), then they’re gonna have to stick together, they’re gonna have to watch each other’s backs. There’s no way Dean’s not gonna look out for Sam - which means that he’s  just gonna have to make sure Dean gets out of this safe and sound, come heaven or high hell.

 

So he offers Mr. Newman a nod of thanks, waves lightly and turns deliberately, walking out, each step filled with conviction.

 

No way in _hell_ is someone gonna hurt Dean behind Sam's back.

 

*-*-*

 

It’s been a long fucking day and all Dean wants to do is collapse on the bed.

 

He’s been on his feet since dawn, having raced out of the house as soon as it was light outside - he’s the one with the keys to the garage this week, which means that he opens and locks up. Which means that he can come in as early and leave as late as he wants to.

 

And after the suffocating weekend with Sam, Dean just wanted out. For just _some_ time, he wanted to forget that he’s an abusive asshole who beat his brother, that he’s wired over almost all his savings to an absentee dad, that he and Sam are potentially implicated in a fucking murder.

 

Yeah, Dean just wanted a break. So he did what he usually does when he wants to hide himself from the world - he headed into the garage as early as 6.30 a.m., and threw open an engine, working his way through the parts of the Camry he’s been restoring for their latest client.

 

Bobby walked in around 8, took one look at Dean’s flushed face, his red eyes and his already grease-stained overalls and headed straight into the garage’s little kitchen, putting on a second cup of coffee without a word. He knows better than to pick at Dean when he’s in one of these moods and instead, leaves the mechanic to take out his frustrations on the cars they’re working on.

 

But evening came by and Dean still didn't emerge, ignoring the other workers through the day. Jo shows up at one point, around noon, to force him into interaction with human beings and force some food down his throat, but he shat on her parade so much that she simply punched his shoulder and stomped out, informing him that he was an asshole. At that point, Bobby smacked the back of his head, called him an idjit and demanded an explanation, but Dean didn't respond, burying himself under a car this time so that people will fucking _leave him alone._

 

It’s dark now, close to 8 in the night, and he’s physically exhausted. He’s avoiding Sam again, avoiding all of ‘em, but he doesn’t know what to do - how the fuck is he supposed to keep them both safe?

 

How does he make sure Sam gets to whichever fucking college he wants to go to when he has no cash? How does he ask Dad to come back, how does he apologize for not only hitting Sam but having a breakdown in front of him and making his younger brother worry about?

 

Dean doesn’t know.

 

So in classic Winchester style, he avoids it - he runs like Dad ran in the wake of Mom’s death and Sam’s mutism. At least if he’s working, he can lie to himself and pretend that he’s squirreling away the money he needs to put Sam through college.

 

His eyes are burning, his head spinning from the lack of sleep and food and that’s why he misses them. Dean’s strong and alert usually, he can hold his own in a fight - as long as he’s not drunk - but he’s tired and exhausted and really, the violence is almost welcome at this point.

 

The two assholes are big and burly as they thrash his face into the wall. He struggles, clawing at the thick arms around his waist, but it’s of no use; he’s held down and pinned and he yells loudly.

 

“Mr. Crowley would like to see you,” comes the low threat, growled into his ear, and fuck, why is this happening _again_?

 

Didn't he already pay off the damn asshole’s loan?

 

“Well, ask him to book an appointment, then,” Dean hisses back through gritted teeth, “We’re closed for the day.”

 

He shoots his head up, head-butting his captor and the man lets out a loud screech, grip loosening. Dean twists out of his grasp, panting heavily and throwing a punch, but he’s one against three, he discovers, and a moment later, he’s pinned against the wall, this time held down by his arms as the smarmy British voice comes from the dark.

 

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Crowley sounds entirely too smug, the asshoole and Dean spits the blood out of his mouth, glaring at the short dick. His side, still healing from Gordon and then his fight with Sam, is burning - fuck, is he _ever_ going to catch a break?

 

“You  keep comin’ around, Crowley, and I’mma start thinking you’ve got a hard-on for me,” Dean smirks back,  narrowing his eyes at the drug dealer.

 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “You and your moose brother are a bit too buffy for my tastes, Princess,” he snarks back.

 

“Show up like this again and again, could give a guy ideas,” Dean grunts. “I almost think- _ooomph,_ ” he groans as the wrestler-looking dude punches him, right in the gut. It’s not a particularly hard punch, but it knocks the wind out of him, especially since he’s not fully in shape at the moment.

 

“We can have a witty-repartee later, love,” Crowley murmurs. “ _After_ you’ve paid my debt off.”

 

Dean freezes.

 

Fuck.

 

_Fuck_ \- this is what he’s been afraid of.

 

He paid Gordon back, cent for cent, making sure that Sam’s debt was cleared. What the motherfucking hell is Crowley on about now?

 

“I’ve paid you off, you smarmy dick,” he yells, “Every single cent.”

 

“Ah, but Dean,” Crowley answers, “I haven’t received it… your account is still quite open to the amount of… let’s see now, how much was it?”

 

He pulls out a long fucking piece of paper that Dean is sure is a prop, and rolls it over, looking carefully. “To the account of, let’s see…” there’s a moment of silence, before Crowley snarls, “two thousand fucking bucks.”

 

Dean’s blood runs cold, his heart jerking against his chest. That’s almost two-thirds of the overall amount he initially owed the dick - he _paid_ that amount off.

 

“The hell, Crowley?” he growls back. “I don't owe you shit. I paid it off, I don’t-”

 

“But I didn't get the money, Princess,” the drug dealer shrugs. “So you and your brother, Squirrel, still owe me two grand.”

 

“Crowley, I can’t, I don’t-” Dean’s exhausted and he’s panicking - he knows,  _knows_ that he sounds pathetic, but he’s just wired a _grand_ to dad and he doesn’t have that kinda cash. “Gordon,” he says desperately, “I paid it all to Gordon, Crowley, I don't owe you jackshit -”

 

“But see, Dean,” Crowley says casually, “Gordon’s a stiff now. I was okay, you know… giving you time to pay me in installments - small business like yours, I’m sure you’re struggling to keep the lights on. But it’s been six months, and I. Want. My. _Fucking. Money_ ,” he hisses.

 

It hits Dean like a brick - Gordon must have been paying the dick in small amounts in Dean’s name while he was enjoying the rest of it on his own, because he sure as hell wasn’t gonna be indebted to the assholes. He’d paid upfront; he’d scrimped and saved and blown guys in bars to save the money, but he’d paid it all together in the time Gordon told him he had.

 

Son of a fucking _bitch_.

 

“Crowley, Gordon’s behind this, he stole my cash, I can’t -”

 

Is he _really_ trying to reason with a drug dealer?

 

How far has he fucking fallen? How much further will he have to go before this fucking ends?

 

Crowley shrugs again. “I don't care,” he says, “It’s not my problem. I like you, Dean, but I’m gettin’ tired of this and I want my cash.”

 

He tilts his head and the two men drop Dean to the floor. He sinks, spitting out a mouthful of blood and breathing out, feeling the panic slowly spread through his entire body.

 

“You have one week.”

 

“What’s to stop me from callin’ Jody on ya right now?” Dean asks weakly. “Garage has surveillance footage, asshole, I can -”

 

“I’m sure,” Crowley cuts in, pausing at the doorway to turn back. “You’ll call the police, threaten to do bad things to me, makes all tingly really. But Squirrel,” his voice remains pleasant, the threat barely veiled. “A needle prick doesn’t take much, especially on a crowded street. Wouldn’t want young Sammy to slip back into the habit so soon, would we? Such a shame… and he’s got bright future too.”

 

“You stay the fuck away from Sam,” Dean snarls, “Or -”

 

“And the pretty Sheriff,” Crowley continues, “Or the gruff salt-and-pepper git masquerading as your father? It’s a garage, Dean, machines break and accidents happen.”

 

_“Crowley -”_

 

“One week,” he warns and then struts out like the damned peacock that he is, his three lackeys following him out like damn obedient dogs.

 

And the only thing Dean can do is lie there, numb with the realization that he might have to turn tricks again - because where the hell _else_ is he gonna get  that kind of money?

 

It takes him over an hour to pull himself together and get home. Bastards managed to get him in the same region, his half-healed wounds now swollen again and aching like a bitch - but Dean can’t be bothered right now.

 

Fuck, _what_ is he going to do?

 

He _has_ to keep Sam safe - keep him safe and alive and healthy and that has been Dean’s number one priority since the day Dad thrust a wailing baby in his arms and asked him to run out. He’s already fucked up once enough that Sam went to rehab; how does he make sure that he doesn’t end up there again?

 

And hell, Bobby and Ellen and Jo and Jody - Dean has no doubt that Crowley’s got enough influence to be able to quietly take ‘em out. He can't be responsible for that.

 

He _won't_.

 

He’s got one week; blowing a couple guys at the back of a bar won't get him straight up two grand - he’s gotta do more than that this time. Unless he steals or borrows, he can't get two fucking grand in a week.

 

Maybe if he asks Bobby for an upfront payment this month… but that’ll mean working without pay for a while and Sam’s gonna need the cash to get his books for school. And he’s got bills to pay, if they wanna keep the lights and heat on. The tips from the bar aren’t gonna be enough to cover it all - he’ll need the cash from the garage.

 

There’s nothing else he can do.

 

Wincing, he lugs himself out of the Impala and trudges wearily to the door. The lights are on and the door’s open, which means that Sam’s already home. Dean sighs; a part of him is friggin’ glad to see his brother - after the threats of tonight, he needs to know that Sam’s safe, that Sam’s okay - but another part, the part he always tries to squish down and silence… the part that never got to be a child… it flinches, because he doesn’t feel like dealing with tiptoeing around Sam right now.

 

He’s too damned exhausted.

 

“Hey Dean.”

 

Sam sounds weird and Dean frowns as he kicks off his shoes, straightening up. His side burns, the muscle suddenly yanked on, and he breathes in sharply. But he won't - _can't_ \- let Sam know what happened.

 

“Dinner?” he asks gruffly.

 

Sam shrugs. “I ate,” he says tersely. “Dean, we gotta talk.”

 

Dean stutters, missing a step as he walks to the kitchen. Luckily, Sam is laid up on the couch, hidden by the TV, and he doesn’t see his elder brother falter, worried that Sam knows.

 

Sam can't know - he can't know all that Dean’s done to keep him going. He can't know that Dean’s sold himself more times than he cares to count, because, fuck, he can't imagine the look of disgust on his brother’s face if he finds out how _low_ Dean’s fallen.

 

“It’s late, Sam,” he replies in a short, clipped tone. “I’m friggin’ exhausted. Can't we talk tomorrow?”

 

“No,” Sam snaps, “Because tomorrow, you’ll run out again before the goddamned sun comes up and you won't be home till late. You’re avoiding, Dean, I know you.”

 

“I’m fucking tired,” Dean snaps back, “Because, as you pointed out, I’ve been up on my feet since sunrise. I’d really like to just collapse in bed if that’s okay with you.”

 

He grabs a glass of water, gulping it down and then whirls around, ready to stomp upstairs to make his point when Sam grabs his arm.

 

Son of a _bitch._

 

He hisses as Sam’s fingers inadvertently wrap around the place those assholes held him down; apparently, their grip was tight enough to leave bruises. It doesn’t hurt much - he didn't even notice until now - but Sam’s hold makes the sting burn anew and his eyes burn, both from exhaustion and worry.

 

“Let me go, Sam!” he hisses and Sam stumbles back, as if hit.

 

“So it’s true,” he breathes. “You _were_ in a fight with Gordon that night.”

 

Dean blinks. “What?”

 

Sam meets his gaze squarely, glaring at him. “Jody came to the school today,” he offers quietly. “My new English teacher - Casper Newman  - was pulled out during class.”

 

“Motherfucker,” the mechanic swears under his breath.

 

“She wanted to interrogate him,” Sam says pointedly, “About a fight behind the Roadhouse that Gordon had been in. He’s dead, by the way.”

 

“Sam,” Dean begins, but his brother cuts in.

 

“Were you ever gonna tell me?” he asks, sounding so small, it almost hurts to hear. “I fucked up, I know I did - but you… how can I earn your trust back?”

 

He looks up with glassy eyes and Dean’s _done_.

 

He’s torn up, pulled inside out, his heart is a jackhammer against his chest, his blood pounding through his head. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s got Sammy wrapped in his arms, the stupidly tall moose too big for him to fully noogie like he used to before.

 

“Is _that_ what you think?” he mumbles into Sam’s shoulder. “That I don't _trust_ you?”

 

“I’m _addict_ , Dean,” Sam whispers, shaking slightly and damn if that doesn’t go straight to Dean’s gut. “And Gordon was my supplier… I don't blame you for not telling me, but…”

 

Dean pulls back, punching his shoulder.

 

“I didn't tell you,” he says gruffly, “Because it’s my job, Sammy. Watching out for my pain in the ass little brother… that’s what I’m supposed to do, right?”

 

“And you’ve gotta cut back on that!” Sam suddenly cries out. “I want you to think about yourself for once! I’ve been following you around my whole life, I just -”

 

“I’m _fine_ ,” Dean cuts him off. He pulls back, swallowing hard.

 

“Promise me,” Sam demands. “Promise me that you won't hide anything else. If Gordon is dead, if Jody’s investigating his murder… we gotta stick together, Dean, promise me.”

 

“I had nothing to do with Gordon’s death,” Dean says stiffly.

 

Sam shakes his head. “I know you didn't,” he answers. “But you _have_ to trust me. Please.”

 

“I promise,” Dean lies. He knows it’s a promise he’s already breaking, even as he’s making it, but right now…

 

Right now, he _can't_ think that. Because there are somethings Sammy can't ever know, somethings Sammy shouldn't ever find out and this is one of them.

 

“Thank you,” Sam sounds so grateful, Dean’s heart sinks even further and he wants to crawl into a hole and never climb back out.

 

“Are we done here? Can I go up and collapse now?” he asks sarcastically, “Or do you wanna hug some more and braid hair?”

 

The teenager rolls his eyes. “ _You_ hugged _me_ ,” he points out. Dean makes a face, very maturely mouthing _you hugged me_ back at his brother and then walks upstairs, ignoring the way his side aches with each step that he takes.

 

It won't be the first time he’s going to bed when every breath is a challenge. And he has a strong suspicion that it isn't going to be the last.

 

*-*-*

 

Gabriel can smell the metallic tinge almost as soon as he gets close to the door.

 

“Fuck,” he swears, already knowing what he’s going to find inside; he didn't spend all his life around guns and death to not be able to recognize the scent of blood when he smells it. He turns the doorknob, dread pooling in his stomach. The stench is fresh and strong - it assaults his senses as soon as he steps in, clogging his nostrils and overtaking everything else. For a second, he’s transported back, right into that tattered old warehouse, and he’s seeing _Anna_ again, laid up on the cross, fucking _crucified_ alive -

 

“Gabe?”

 

Balthazar’s voice cuts through the haze and the short man turns around to see  his cousin watching him. His expression remains neutral, but Gabriel knows how to read the signs - the corner of his eyes are tight with worry, his lips pursed slightly.

 

“Devereaux,” he answers shortly. They share a look of exhausted knowing and step in, seeing exactly what they expected to see.

 

The fat man is laid up on the floor, eyes unseeing, throat slit, lying in a pool of his own blood. From the looks of it, he was killed not too long ago; his glasses, broken, are still lying next to him, and his TV is still on, though the volume’s been muted.

 

Gabriel bends down and presses his hand to the ornery old bastard’s glassy eyes and closes them, heaving a sigh of mourning, closing his eyes for a long, silent moment.

 

“I’m sorry old man,” he offers an apology to the dead body, wishing he could've made it on time, wishing he could have protected him.

 

But Frank knew what he was getting into - he’d prepared for this possibility. Because Frank was a fucking paranoid old asshole, but he knew how to play the game.

 

He was the one to keep Kali safe the first time, after all. And he’s been working for the family for decades.

 

“It looks like a clean cut,” Balthazar says softly from behind him, staring at the dead man’s cut throat. “Meg, maybe… or Edgar. She doesn’t seem to leave Azazel’s side these days.”

 

Gabriel doesn’t answer, his heart sinking at the thought of his elder brother’s pupil and his daughter. How is Cassie related to these monsters?

 

How is _Claire?_

 

But then, he himself has killed more than he cares to count - he always made it quick and painless and never took the life of an innocent, but killing is killing. And he’ll never admit it how hard it is sometimes to sleep with that much blood on his hands.

 

“What do we do now, Gabe?” Balthazar asks and Gabe stand up, pursing his lips. He turns to his cousin, who is frowning and looking at the remains of the room, scanning the place. It’s been trashed, of course, but the elder Novak heads to the bookcase. The lower shelves have been pulled out, a number of the books lying torn on the floor, but the ones at the very top remain in tact, not that that matters anyway.

 

He counts down the sixth book from the top right corner and then pulls it out, finding the small button at the very back that Frank promised him would be there. He presses it down on it and then jumps back as a small compartment on the lower case extends itself. It’s a tiny box, smaller than a car’s glove compartment, barely big enough to fit the hard drive sitting inside it.

 

“What’s that?” Balthazar asks. Gabriel bends down to pick it up and turn back to him, holding it up to show him.

 

“A hard disk?” the British man frowns and he nods.

 

“Frank was an obsessive asshole,” he answers, “he backed up all his data, each night, and he kept it offline, in an encrypted disk. I’m the only one who knows about it and he only told _me_ ‘cuz I plied him with a buttload of alcohol and dragged it out of him.”

 

“If it’s encrypted, how will we use the data?” Balthazar points out.

 

Gabriel sighs, yanking his phone out. “Goddamned it,” he mutters, thumbing through his contacts to land on the dummy one that they use to keep in touch.

 

“Gabe,” Baltazar sounds frustrated. “What the _hell_ did you put Frank on? If Lucifer and Mike sent Meg or Azazel after him, then he got into something -”

 

He raises a finger in response, shushing him. The younger man grumbles, but falls quiet, settling for a glare of protest.

 

The phone rings once, twice, thrice and then heads into voicemail - just like he knew it would.

 

“Hey Red,” he says softly. “I know I promised you I’d never contact you again… but I need your help. I’m cashin’ that favor in.”

 

He hangs up immediately, knowing better than to use any identifying markers in the call. Her nickname of Red will be more than enough - if there’s one thing Charlie Bradbury was ever good at, it was disappearing.

 

“Who’s Red?”

 

Gabriel heaves a hefty sigh, wrinkling his nose as the smell of blood assaults his nose again. He turns back to Frank’s prone form and swallows, looking up at Balthazar.

 

“A friend,” he answers, “Who can help. I didn't wanna involve her because she’s as much in hiding as Cassie is, but…”

 

“We don't have a choice,” Balthazar finishes. “But what was Frank doing?” he stresses.

 

He’s pushing for information Gabriel can't tell him yet - not until Charlie comes, _if_ she comes. The redhead isn't obligated to him - he made that very clear when he helped her run after Kali’s death. But she’s a decent person. He thinks she’ll help.

 

He hopes.

 

Honestly, he has no idea where he’s going or what the flipping flying fuck he’s doing, but Gabriel knows one thing - he’s got to keep Cassie and the girls safe.

 

It’s all that’s driving him anymore. He promised Anna, promised her that he’d keep their baby brother and their kids safe and he’s going to keep that promise even if it kills him, which, as he suspects, it well might.

 

“He was cracking a code,” he replies finally to Balthazar. “Don't,” he anticipates as his cousin closes his mouth on the question he was about to ask. Baz frowns but doesn’t push anymore, instead turning to Frank and sighing softly himself.

 

“We should give him a decent burial,” he says. “Crotchety old trout deserves that much at least.”

 

“Yeah,” Gabriel murmurs. “Yeah.” He looks at Balthazar and frowns, pointing to his phone. “Will you take care of that? I’mma call the Sheriff at Sioux Falls - she’s diggin’ hard  into Gordon’s death.”

 

“What’re you gonna say?” Baz doesn’t say anything, but Gabe can read him well enough. He’s worried.

 

So Gabe simply shrugs. “FBI,” he says, “back off, we’ve got our own investigation goin’ on.”

 

Balthazar snickers. “Feds and their strong-arming might actually come in handy, after all.” his expression darkens as Gabriel hums in amusement.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says abruptly. “Gordon was -”

 

“An assclown that tried to kill you,” Gabriel cuts him off firmly. “I may be tearing down the drug industry, Baz, but I’ve done my fair share of blood-spilling. You don't have to explain.”

 

Balthazar falls silent and out of the corner of his eyes, the shorter man sees him swallow tightly.

 

“Thanks,” he says quietly. Gabriel clasps his shoulder and then bumps him slightly.

 

“Get out,” he tells him, “Go and make yourself useful. We need to get rid of the body, we gotta keep movin’.”

 

It’s downright disrespectful to talk of Frank like this, as though he was nothing more than the stiff on the ground. But Gabriel's never been one for subtlety - Anna would punch him for it, but this close to the end, he has no choice. He cannot fall apart now, he doesn’t have the fucking luxury.

 

So he straightens up, turns the snark back on and orders his cousin to get moving.

 

They're almost done for the day, he can go and then let himself shatter in the darkness of his motel bed, alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER THOUGHTS - 
> 
> And plot! If you've read my stories, you know how MUCH I love Charlie Bradbury; there was no way in hell she wasn't gonna play a major role here. :P *hint hint* Next chapter is going to be Destiel (ish) and I'm so excited to share it with you! 
> 
> Thank you so much to reviewers who've been leaving kind comments and constructive criticism. Emma's lisp is something I'm struggling to write - as y'all suggested, I've tried to cut it down to just the r's alone, lemme know if that works or if you'd prefer I leave it out altogether! 
> 
> I'm doing drabbles on Tumblr 'cuz my brain's writing even when I'm not writing, check it [out!](http://dusky-gold.tumblr.com/)


	12. I Flee when the Silence Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Jody is stonewalled on Gordon's murder, both Cas and Dean head into the next town to face their respective pasts/futures. Starts out fluffy, but quickly turns angsty - please heed trigger warnings. Serious plot movement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, this one was quite the wringer! Not just because of the angst, but the plot moved ahead and I had to keep going back to check my old stuff to make sure I wasn't gettin' facts wrong! And sorry y'all, it's still Sunday somewhere, isn't it? :P
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS - Graphic descriptions of prostitution, dubious consent, recollections of previous prostitution, separation anxiety, graphic descriptions of death and dead bodies, descriptions of graveyards, low self-worth and self-esteem, basically Dean hating on himself

**Chapter 11 - I Flee when the Silence Echoes**

 

Jody startles awake when the phone rings. Next to her, Donna groans and turns over, burying her face in the pillow, half-heartedly bashing at the Sheriff. She snorts, reaching beyond her wife to grab at her cell. 

 

“If you’re a telemarketer callin’ me at ass o’clock in the mornin’, I will find you and I will kill you,” she snarls into the receiver. Donna giggles into the pillow, throwing her leg over Jody’s ass and drawing her close and the elder woman bends to drop a quick kiss to her cheek.

 

“Is that a confession, Sheriff?” comes the amused voice across and Jody frowns. “I’m FBI, I’m sure I can write you up for that.”

 

She shoots up in bed, ignoring Donna’s huff of irritation, and scowls. “FBI?” she snaps. “What?”

 

“That’s right, Sheriff,” the male voice answers. “FBI. I’m calling about the Gordon Walker case.” 

 

“And what do the feds want with the murder of a small-time drug dealer?” she asks sharply. 

 

“What d’ya think?” the man answers snarkily. “We’re taking over your case, of course.” 

 

“The hell you are,” she exclaims, “Mr. FBI man, I dunno who you are, but you ain’t doin’ jackshit until I get proper-”

 

“You can call me Agent Loki, Sheriff,” he cuts her off. “And when you get into the office today, you’ll find all the paperwork on your desk.”

 

“Listen, Agent Loki,” Donna blinks up at her, raising an eyebrow and seriously, what kind of a name is _Loki_? 

 

“I’m not gonna just randomly hand my case over to a guy I’ve never seen before,” she continues, “Gordon Walker was a dealer in my town and -”

 

“You love your community and want to serve your country, yada yada, I geddit,” the man interjects again, “but Walker’s part of a federal investigation and we’ve been after him for ages now.”

 

“Look,” she sighs, “I’m not against the feds-” Donna snorts and she rolls her eyes, gently slapping her wife’s back. She yelps, rubbing her rump and glaring at her and Jody smirks back, continuing, “But you can't just expect me to hand you my case without evidence or even meeting you.”

 

“I get that,” the man answers, “Which is why I will be stopping by the station later this afternoon to collect whatever you’ve got so far.”

 

Before she can retort, the man hangs up. 

 

“Mothertrucker,” Jody swears, dumping her phone on the nightstand again, scowling at the damn thing. Donna peers up at her through concerned eyes. 

 

“What is it?” she asks and Jody sighs, drawing her close and resting her face against Donna’s neck. The blonde woman runs a hand through Jody’s short hair, kissing her temple. 

 

“Feds takin’ over my investigation,” she says, her voice muffled, “Agent Loki is coming in today to  _ collect _ all the evidence I got,” she imitates him and Donna whistles. 

 

“His name is Loki?” she snorts and Jody chuckles, rolling over and lying down on her back, staring up at the ceiling. 

 

“I know,” she replies. Quiet falls over them, a small pause while Donna waits patiently for Jody to pull her thoughts together. 

 

“Don,” she whispers, “I…  _ I  _ wanted to bring Gordon to justice,” she turns her face to see Donna watching her with a knowing expression on her face. “He sold to Sam, got him hooked… I wanted to cuff that bastard and then yank his boss in.”

 

Because Sam and Dean aren’t just any kids - they were as much her boys as Owen is. There was a time when she and Bobby were almost a thing; if not for Donna, she’s pretty sure she’d have married that crotchety old bastard. 

 

And Donna taught Sam to speak again. Neither of them were unaffected by his drug addiction; in the wake of finding him almost dead behind the bleachers, Jody went on overdrive, trying to bring his supplier to justice, trying to go after the big-wig supplying him. 

 

She failed. 

 

And now not only is the son of a bitch dead, she’s being taken off the fucking case. 

 

Donna leans over and cups her face, leaning in to kiss her gently. Jody sighs, wrapping her arms around her wife’s curvy frame, enjoying the softness of her bare skin against her cold palms. Donna wiggles from her  chilled fingers but settles into the embrace, resting her forehead against Jody’s. 

 

“Ya did what ya could,” she murmurs, “Jodes, what matters is that Gordon’s boss be caught… and if the feds can do it…?” 

 

“Yeah,” Jody sighs. Busting drug dealers  _ can’t  _ be a vendetta like it is for her; maybe it is for the best that she take a step back and let Agent  _ Loki  _ handle the investigation. 

 

“What’re you doin’ today?” she looks down at her wife, sifting her hand through the long locks of golden hair. Donna smiles, shrugging and sits up, the sheets falling to her waist to reveal her ample breasts and Jody finds herself watching, mesmerized. 

 

“See something you like?” Donna teases and Jody grins back, raising an eyebrow and narrowing in on her chest unashamedly. 

 

“Hell yeah.”

 

Donna giggles and stretches purposefully, throwing her arms up; her back pops and she lets out a satisfied grunt, throwing her legs over the side of their bed and jumping up.

 

“I’m thinkin’ of headin’ into the high school today,” she answers Jody’s question. “And look in on Newman.” 

 

“Casper Newman?” Jody gets up, grabbing her shirt and yanking it on. Donna offers her a nod and pulls up sheet, wrapping it around herself as she moves towards the closet to find herself clothes. 

 

“Yeah,” she says, “You said you’d interrogated him…? He asked for Claire’s work that day, remember, because he was takin’ her into his own classroom…?” 

 

Jody nods; she remembers having to keep the questions short as possible so he could return to his classroom immediately. Newman explained to her what she’d known peripherally already from Donna and Owen - that his daughter was selectively mute and that she was bullied on Friday, so he brought her in with him today and couldn't leave her alone very long. 

 

“Thought I’d go check in on him and see how he’s doin’,” Donna continues, “He’s a single parent with two toddlers, you know how hard that can be.” 

 

She pauses, breath hitching lightly at the realization. Because  _ hell _ , yeah, she does know; Owen is hers biologically, and his father left her literally three months before he was born. She struggled with raising a kid on her own for almost a year before Donna came along; at least she was part of the Sioux Falls community and had Bobby and Ellen and everyone to help.  Newman is  _ literally  _ a new man around town (she snickers mentally at the pun) - he doesn’t have anyone. And Claire is a traumatized, selectively mute kid; she can see how much he’s probably struggling. 

 

“Invite the kids over for a playdate this weekend,” she offers, almost surprised at herself. “I bet the poor dude hasn’t had any time to himself for ages.”

 

Donna looks up from where she’s thumbing through her shirts, expression arranging itself into one of such open pride and affection, Jody feels herself flushing. The younger woman walks over to her and wraps her arms around her, leaning in for quick kiss.

 

Jody’s arms instinctively wind around her wife’s waist and she kisses her back enthusiastically, groaning as the sheet drops to the floor and Donna’s bare breasts tease at her own cloth-covered chest. 

 

“Off ya go, Sheriff,” the blonde smirked as she steps back, raising a golden eyebrow. 

 

“Tease,” Jody snorts and Donna laughs merrily, grabbing her clothes and walking into the bathroom. 

 

“You love it!” she sing-songs and Jody smiles, thinking that, _yeah_ , she definitely does. 

 

*-*-*

 

Dean worries. 

 

Through the whole week, all he can do is grit his teeth and count and recount and re-recount his money. He grabs all the extra shifts he can at the bar, stays till closing and flirts as much as he can to bring in tips. He charms his way into ten and twenty-dollar bills, offers a couple guys and girls a cop in the alley behind The Roadhouse and then, heads home to grab a few hours of sleep before running into the garage, where he pulls as many extra hours as he can to earn the cash he needs so desperately. 

 

He doesn’t eat, barely sleeps and spends any extra minute he has counting the cash in his hands. Bobby and Ellen notice, of course they do, but Dean doesn’t let himself linger at the bar or the garage long enough for them to pull an intervention - he doesn’t what to tell them. They don't know about Crowley and it’s gonna stay that way; right now, they probably think he’s playing the avoidance game again about Sam and  _ he  _ certainly isn’t gonna set ‘em straight. 

 

But money doesn’t magically multiply. No matter how many times he counts it, the cash doesn’t reach that final goal of two grand - by the end of the week, he’s got about 800 dollars and he’s damn near killed himself to get that. 

 

Friday night rolls around and he has jackshit; the garage is closed on Sunday, which means he can’t pull extra shifts. And even if he asks Bobby upfront for an advance, that leaves him working for no cash for the rest of the month and he’s got bills to pay. 

 

He doesn’t  _ have  _ a choice. 

 

He’s gonna have to do what he swore never to do again - he’s gonna have to fucking sell himself. 

 

_ Son of a bitch.  _

 

But Dean does what he has to; he doesn’t have a choice. Sammy’s  _ life  _ hangs on the balance here. If he doesn’t give Crowley his goddamned money, he has no doubt that the drug dealer will do exactly as he’s threatened - all it’ll take is a single shot of heroin to push Sammy back into the habit and injections are hard to detect. 

 

So he does what he’s supposed to do - he takes care of his pain in the ass little brother. 

 

On Saturday evening, he grabs the tightest pair of pants he owns, ones that showcase his ass quite nicely, shaves off the stubble he’s begun to sprout over the week, slathers on some of his best-smelling deo and aftershave and throws on his usual leather jacket before walking down. His heart is racing a mile a minute in his chest, but he forces his lips into their usual smirk, refusing to show any sign of weakness. 

 

Sammy’s still up, sitting at the table with his homework spread out all over him. Fortunately for Dean, the moose-girl’s been too busy this past week with school to pay attention to how hard his brother’s been working.

 

The sound of Dean’s footsteps distract him from whatever nerdiness has got him occupied now and he looks up, raising an eyebrow at how dressed up he is. Sam’s known him too long to not recognize his goin’-out-to-get-laid look; Dean’s not a teenage girl, thank you very much, which means when he does clean up, he’s got exactly one aesthetic and Sam knows it all too well. 

 

“Hot date?” he grins and Dean shrugs. 

 

His legs feel like jelly and his palms are sweaty, but he curves his lips into what he hopes is a smirk and not a grimace. 

 

“Hopefully,” he answers, “Dinner’s in the fridge,” he turns his back to Sam deliberately as he grabs his shoes, not letting his brother see the way his hands are shaking. 

 

“Who is it?” Sam asks and Dean freezes, heart thudding. 

 

“Who-what?” he snaps. 

 

“Your date,” Sam snarks, “Who’re you going out with?”

 

Dean lets out a soft, shaky breath, turning back to face the younger Winchester. “Nobody,” he replies, “Well, not yet… I’mma head to the bar, see if I can chat up some chicks, some dudes, you know how it goes.” 

 

“So you  _ don’t  _ have a date?” Sam frowns. 

 

Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m heading out for a drink and a one-night lay,” he responds, “Which is what  _ you _ , a horny teenager,  _ should  _ be doing instead of all this homework…” he leans over to perfunctorily mess up Sam’s books and said teenager yelps, glaring at him. 

 

“Jerk,” he snaps and Dean offers him a chuckle. 

 

“Bye bitch!” he calls out, turning back and grabbing his keys. “Don't wait up, I’mma be doin’ the walk of shame tonight!” 

 

“Gross, Dean!” Sam’s call follows him out and Dean allows himself a moment’s smile to laugh at his brother’s predictable reaction before the grin fades and he’s standing out in the cold, shivering as much from the fear as the weather. 

 

_ Fuck.  _

 

*-*-*

 

When Ms. Donna offers to take the girls for a night, Castiel hesitates. As much as he wants the time to himself - needs it, in fact - he doesn’t want to burden the kindergarten teacher, not to mention he doesn't expect the girls to take it well. 

 

This week hasn’t been easy; in fact, it’s one of the hardest Castiel has ever experienced. The last time he found himself struggling this hard was just after they left the estate, Claire mute and hanging off of his arms as he worried about where they were going to go and how they were going to survive. 

 

Emma’s calmed down since her little tantrum on Monday, but he can sense the tension between his girls. They’re closer than most siblings - they’ve had to be, with all that they’ve gone through - but that also means that when they do blow up at one another, it doesn’t go away easily. 

 

So things aren’t in a good place. Castiel is tired, not just physically, but emotionally - the thought of a break from parenting and his girls sounds good, sounds like the moment he needs to catch his breath, but still, he hesitates. 

 

For all that Donna knows sign language and that Claire is comfortable with her, the idea of not seeing his girls for an entire night is troubling. He doesn’t think he’s done that ever, not even with Anna - no matter what, he’s always ready for his girls, always had his door open for them to wander in at any given moment. 

 

With the threat of death hanging over their heads, it’s hard-wired into him. And Claire doesn’t do too well with strangers; in fact, she hasn’t been away from him since the moment they fled the estate. 

 

But God, a break sounds so wonderful right about now. Castiel loves his daughters, he  _ does _ , but a single night… just  _ one  _ night to himself, to sleep and to unwind… 

 

It sounds like heaven. 

 

So even though he’s hesitant, he asks if Donna is absolutely sure. 

 

The blonde woman grins widely and nods. 

 

“Of course, Mr. Newman!” she claps her hands enthusiastically. “Owen and Claire get along really well, and it’ll do them good to mingle!” 

 

“But Claire’s mutism-” he begins, “And Emma -”

 

“Mr. Newman,” she says firmly, her voice kind but stern, “I know you’re uncomfortable with the idea of sending your daughters over for a play-date… but trust me, it’s good for them to interact with kids other than each other.”

 

She peers at him through half-lidded lashes, watching him carefully. “And,” she adds softly, “If I’m not mistaken, you could use a night off yourself.” 

 

He startles, eyes widening at her as he jumps back.

 

“That’s not-”  he starts and she giggles, patting his shoulder gently. 

 

“I’ve a kid too,” she answers, “it’s normal, human even, to sometimes wanna wring your kid’s neck… doesn’t mean you love ‘em any less.”

 

He sighs, massaging his temples and meeting her knowing gaze with a tired look. 

 

“You’re certain?” he asks and she nods. 

 

“I’m sure,” she replies. “Here,” she hands him her phone, “Type your number in… Jody’ll be by your place later to pick up Claire and Emma. And we know who to call in case of an emergency.” 

 

Before he can think too much, Castiel grabs the phone and does as ordered. 

 

*-*-*

 

He is going to be doing the walk of shame tonight, only it will be a literal, gingerly walk because he’s gonna have to offer his ass up to some stranger to fuck. Or he’ll have to entertain some lonely chick’s dirty fantasies; either way, Dean isn't coming home without the cash. 

 

He’s been avoiding thinking about it all of this week, but it  _ isn’t  _ going away. And he knew, he supposes - some part of him  _ knew _ , even right then with Crowley, that this is the only way he can arrange for fucking two thousand dollars in just a week. An no matter how much he tries to deny it, a part of him thinks - this is all he’s good for, anyway. 

 

It hurts. 

 

Because this is  _ real _ ; this is fucking really happening again. Dean’s getting into the Impala and driving over to the next town, because he doesn’t have a choice. He  _ has  _ to do this, he  _ has  _ to keep Sam safe, keep the rest of his family safe - he  _ has  _ to do this. 

 

And he can’t do it in Sioux Falls. 

 

It’s a small town. No matter how tightly knit the community is, no matter how familiar he is with the people around, they aren’t going to let a whore look after a kid - they won't let a whore raise Sam. 

 

That’s what he is, isn't he? 

 

_ A whore.  _

 

But Dean can't feel ashamed - he can't feel much of anything really. He’s numb, utterly blanked out, his mind quiet. He doesn’t let himself think, because if he does, he’s going to remember, he’s going to think about the number of times he’s done this, think about how much he’s given up since the last time he went out of town and no, he can't, he  _ can't -  _

 

_ It was dim and sweaty and humid in the bar.  _

 

_ Dean could barely breathe as he weaved his way through the throng of bodies populating the dance floor. No one knew him here, he could afford to push past the sweaty and smelly mass to get to the counter. He refused to think about why he was here; Dean was a professional and an expert at this by now - it wasn’t the first time he was turning tricks or picking up customers at the bar, and he had a feeling it wouldn't be the last either.  _

 

_ But fuck it all, he wanted just one drink before he went to sell himself again.  _

 

_ One drink, he promised himself, that was all he would take. As much as he wanted to forget why he was here in the first place, as inviting as getting sloshed before getting fucked sounded, he couldn't do it - he couldn't risk being so out of it that he might be taken advantage of. He needed that cash.  _

 

_ But one beer… just  _ one  _ beer to keep his nerves up, he told himself. Swallowing hard, he plopped into the one empty seat and gestured to the bartender, waving him over.  _

 

_ This crowded on a Friday night, the dude didn't see him and Dean grunted, ignoring the way his hands shook as he waved again. He heard a snort from next to him and he glanced at the woman from the corner of his eyes. _

 

_ He caught a glimpse of long, red hair before he turned back and gestured for the bartender - how the hell was he this slow? Kid could take a few lessons from the barely teenage Jo… of course, his pseudo-sister hadn’t been behind the bar in months, sitting in front of her Daddy’s grave, and fuck, Dean wasn’t going there, not today, not now, when he needed to get the money for Sam’s school books -  _

 

The loud honking of a car pulls Dean out of his memories and he yanks the wheel hard, swerving to the right as the oncoming car continue to honk its way past. 

 

“Bastard!” 

 

He hears the yell through the open window and smiles sardonically; goddamned it, he is a bastard, isn't he? 

 

Four years… almost four years it’s been since he did this. The last time was just after Bill’s death, just after he took custody of Sam. he could be the noble hero, drop out of school and sign the papers, but fucking nobility didn't pay the bills, didn't teach Sam to speak with his hands, didn't buy the food they needed. 

 

And even with community support, there was only so much their social worker could do - Dean was barely out of his teens, but he was in charge of feeding, raising and educating a traumatized kid. For all that his dad signed custody of Sam over to him, Dean wasn't even legal to drink; no way in hell was fucking CPS gonna let it go if he slipped up even once. 

 

He needed the money. 

 

And he needed to not get caught for solicitation. 

 

So the last time, he’d slapped on the same aftershave he’s wearing now, grabbed the same leather jacket, slicked his hair down and headed to Dell Rapids, making the ride in just over half an hour and hit the shadiest bar he could find, heart racing. 

 

The roads are strangely empty for a Saturday evening, and the thirty minute ride fades fast, the Impala guzzling up the miles like she guzzles gas. And Dean can't deny it, can't deny the way his palms are clammy with sweat, his hands are gripping the wheel tight, the way his stomach is churning and there’s bile on his tongue, tasting vile. 

 

*-*-*

 

Castiel doesn’t quite understand his need to do this; when Sheriff Mills came to pick Claire and Emma up, neither of his girls hesitated. Strangely enough, despite the fact that she spent the entire week clinging to him, Claire was the first to jump at the chance for a sleepover - it makes him wonder how long his daughters have been hankering for interaction beyond him and one another. 

 

Sometimes their maturity and trauma makes him forget that they’re barely three and five - soon to be six and four - and like any kid, they too have restless energy that sometimes just needs  _ out _ . But a part of him is annoyed at how easily they can forget their Daddy too, after everything he’s put himself through. 

 

So when Emma jumps on him to kiss him goodbye, he forces himself to smile - neither of them deserve his grumpiness at the moment and they’re having their  _ first  _ sleepover. To be sure, it’s a rite of passage for every child, and though he’s worried that he’s letting them experience it  _ far  _ too early, he finds that he trusts Donna and her wife, if only because she can speak in ASL and Jody is the Sheriff. If he can't trust the cops, whom can he trust?

 

Of course, Gabe and Anna would disagree - but they are both dead and he isn’t and this is not the time for this, he reminds himself. He kisses Claire goodbye, waving to Owen where he peeks out from Sheriff Mills’s car and watches her drive away with his daughters. 

 

For a long moment, he can only stare into the distance, stomach clenching and tightening at the sight. He’s never been without his girls, he realizes, never spent a single second without them at the back of his mind, never not felt their presence - even at school, he’s conscious of the fact that Claire is only a few miles away in kindergarten and Emma’s in pre-school right there. 

 

The house feels empty. 

 

It’s too quiet, too full - the silence  _ echoes _ . It screeches into his ears when he steps inside, mocks him when he tries to make dinner and eat by himself. 

 

It yells at him when he pulls out a few of his students’ papers, intent on getting some grading done. He turns the television on, hoping to silence this strangely loud quiet, but it just grates on his ears further and he turns it off in disgust, wondering if his girls are okay. 

 

Balthazar would tease him with separation anxiety, but Castiel pushes the thought of his old cousin away - he’s supposed to be  _ relaxing  _ tonight, not worrying about his past or the future. 

 

So he pulls out his phone and tries calling Missouri; he doesn’t really have any friends to hang out with, he supposes, other than her. She doesn’t pick up. He’s not surprised. She rarely ever answers her phone and it’s getting close to her dinner time, which means she’s probably left it in the kitchen again. He sighs, throwing his phone to the side and stares up at the ceiling, giving in to the inevitable. 

 

What do normal people even do for fun? 

 

Even at the estate, he wouldn't have been able to say - normal people don't spend their free time trying to count the pounds of coke and heroin they were going to be packaging. They don't do inventory of crystal meth, don't torture prisoners for information. 

 

Normal people, in Castiel’s opinion, are so far removed from him, he has no idea how to be anything similar to them. 

 

_ Anna tried to imitate them,  _ he remembers. Neither of them knew how to fit into normal society, having been so insulated against the masses that it was a culture shock the first time they left the estate. Anna took to the life easily; Castiel struggled, unable to adjust, which was why he’d been happy to drop out of college and come home, unlike Anna who chose to run away. 

 

And when he made his own run, Anna was the one kind enough to take him in and teach him the ins and outs of normal human life, helping him through finishing his Masters and getting a real job. 

 

She tried to get him to have fun too, dragging him to bars and pubs, trying to get him to interact with people other than just her and Claire. 

 

A sudden, burning need grips him as he stares up at her smiling face on the mantelpiece - he has no idea why, but he just wants to go, to  _ move _ , to  _ see  _ her - 

 

He thinks Missouri would be proud of the way he doesn’t question his gut instinct, instead simply grabbing his coat and heading out, yanking his keys from the rack and jumping into his rarely-used car. 

 

Anna would be proud too. 

 

*-*-*

 

_ “You new around here?” _

 

_ Dean looked over at the woman next to him, sipping the single beer the bartender finally handed him slowly. He winced; beer isn't meant to be sipped delicately, but he wanted to nurse it as long as possible, if only to prolong this moment of limbo before he had to go find a john.  _

 

_ No matter how many times he did this, it didn't get easier.  _

 

_ “You could say that,” he replied.  _

 

_ She was gorgeous, with wide, hazel eyes that peered up at Dean through crimson lashes. Her skin flushed pale in the dim light, and she was dressed in a leather jacket similar to his, watching him carefully.  _

 

_ On another day, he’d be all over her; Dean was damn charming when he wanted to be and he knew it. But not today and not now - he was here to pick up a john, not get laid for himself. _

 

_ Still, he paused, considering her for a long moment.  _

 

_ “What’s a pretty girl like you doin’ in a place like this?” he asked, unable to stop his usual flirty tone. She snorted in response, taking a healthy swig of her beer and he blinked in surprise.  _

 

_ “I can take care of myself,” she said, her eyes sparkling and leaned forward. Dean pulled back a little, breath hitching as she stared at him in open interest, taking in the way a single drop of beer rolled down the side of his mouth and into his neck - _

 

The bar is still shady, grimy and dim like he remembers it being. It still stinks of sweat and alcohol, the mass of bodies writhing on the dance floor, grinding up one another and swaying strategically. 

 

In the corner, he sees the small group of whores like himself, loitering about and looking for a john, just like he used to. Prostitution maybe illegal in this fucking state, but sometimes bars look the other way - it’s a kind thing to do, Dean knows, because out there, on the streets, things are far, far worse. At least here, there’s the illusion of safety; bar owners tend to be protective of their spaces, which means that violence is limited, at least until the whores leave with their customers for the night.

 

But that’s just a hazard of the lifestyle and Dean knows from his own experiences that many of these whores do what they need to, either to feed themselves or others. Being a high-class escort is one thing, being a whore on the streets is another, and while Dean has no idea what the former feels like, he’s got a pretty good exposure to the latter. 

 

It was a life he was hoping he left behind. 

 

He should’ve known it was too good to be true - when do things ever go right for Dean fucking Winchester?

 

So he simply walks into the bar, leaving his Baby in the parking lot, and slaps a smirk on to his face. He wiggles his ass as he heads to the counter - he needs his one beer again, needs that liquid shot of courage if he’s going to get anywhere tonight. 

 

The guy he picks up an hour later is a big, cliche biker dude, with tats running down his sides as he squeezes Dean’s ass through his pants. He winces, but forces his lips to curve into a smirk, following him into the back alley, where the guy pushes him to his knees - 

 

_ The redhead  pushed him against the door, pressing herself against him, kissing him fiercely. She’d introduced herself as Anna and Dean had initially turned her down, regretfully.  _

 

_ But she didn't back off; the bar was where she hung out, she explained. And she knew who - what - he was. _

 

_ She offered him a full thousand fucking dollars for the whole night - how was he supposed to say no to that?  _

 

_ It’d take care of Sammy’s books, their groceries and their medical bills. Their insurance was spotty at best, and although Dad was out of the hospital, Dean was still saddled with enough that this was the best opportunity he’d had in months.  _

 

_ So when she asked him to come back to her motel room with her, he hadn’t hesitated - she was giving him a grand for the night, and she was pretty. And she seemed to like him too. _

 

_ Why would he say no? _

 

*-*-*

 

It isn’t until he’s in Dell Rapids that Castiel slows down.

 

He’s been to this town exactly once before - to bury the ashes of his sister after the car accident killed her and burnt her body beyond recognition. She told him, soon after Emma’s birth, that if she did die before him, then she’d want to be buried in the same place her baby girl was conceived. 

 

She didn't tell him the name of Emma’s father, or even what he was like, except that he was a man who loved deeply. Castiel remembers asking her if she didn't want to share with him that he had a child - even if  _ Meg  _ is Claire’s mother, he doesn’t,  _ can’t  _ regret his baby girl. He wonders if Emma’s father is a man like him - would he accept the responsibility of a child who is the result of a one-night stand? 

 

Anna refused, telling him quietly that the dad wouldn't want it, wouldn't want the reminder of that night - when he snorted, Anna glared at him and told him stiffly that it wasn’t because he didn't like kids or that he was an irresponsible guy, but because he was saddled with  _ too  _ much responsibility already. 

 

Castiel remembers falling silent and letting the matter escape; if there’s one thing he does understand, if both them understood at the time, it was too much responsibility. So he let her have her way and simply nodded when she told him that she wanted to be buried here after her death, close to where she conceived her child.

 

He heads there now, walking into the graveyard, sniffling slightly. His eyes are burning and his chest clenches tightly as he searches for the headstone, stiffly moving in its direction. 

 

_ Anael.  _

 

He didn't -  _ couldn't  _ \- carve out her full name for fear of getting caught. Anna Milton was a well-known of the Novak drug family; she was infamous for having run away and often touted as one of the few instances which shamed his brothers. 

 

But Anael was a name only a few select within the family knew - it was what her birth parents named her, it was the name she embraced and loved but never used because it was too weird. 

 

So he went with that, carving out who she was, wishing he could bury her whole and full instead of the broken jar of ashes that he had lowered into the ground. 

 

Because the car crash had been total, the tank igniting on impact. The bodies inside were  _ incinerated  _ \- he remembers getting the phone call in the middle of his ninth-grade English class, a soft woman’s voice telling him that his sister was in an accident and _ could he please come down to the police station to identify the body?  _

 

But even that he failed at… Anna was too charred, too broken for him to recognize her. It was circumstantial evidence, along with a single lucky strand of hair that proved that it was her - Castiel couldn't stand to look at the body, ordering for it to be burnt (as per their family tradition) before burying the jar of ashes. 

 

He stands here now, where her ashes lay buried, throat tight, stomach clenching as he stares down at her name. He bends down, tracing the letters with his fingers, wanting her back, wanting his family, wanting… he doesn’t know. 

 

It  _ hurts.  _

 

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but he doesn’t know  _ what  _ to say. 

 

So he simply gets back up and walks out, suddenly filled with a restless energy, filled with the need to rip, to break, to  _ do  _ something. 

 

Maybe it’s not just his girls who need an out. 

 

*-*-*

 

The biker tastes salty and dirty in his mouth and Dean closes his eyes, breathing through his nose as he comes down his throat. There was a time when going down on someone didn't make him feel like shit, didn't make him want to throw up - Dean’s a giving lover, he’s always been. He  _ enjoys  _ watching his partners get off,  _ enjoys  _ the feeling of them coming apart in his arms. 

 

He wonders numbly if he’ll ever be able to feel that again. 

 

_ Sam, _ he reminds himself,  _ he has to do this for Sam.  _

 

So when the biker throws him the hundred bucks he’s earned, he catches it with a grin and whistles merrily, heading back in to search for a second customer. 

 

_ They were sitting up in bed, leaning against the headboard. Anna, to Dean’s surprise, didn't just want to fuck - strangely enough, she wanted to talk, to make conversation. It was weird, because she seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say - Dean couldn't remember the last time someone wanted to do that.  _

 

_ Was it in college?  _

 

_ He’d been at Kansas State and a number of the other students around him were uppity trash, but he’d had a few friends. Viktor, for one, had chosen to be his friend - a bisexual guy and a black dude, banding together against the deeply conservative white assholes who kept looking down on them.  _

 

_ Anna sighed, leaning over to rest her head on Dean’s shoulder. He stiffened, uncomfortable with the contact - fucking, sex, he was used to. It was what he was here for. Sweet touches… hell no.  _

 

_ Small, dainty fingers traced down his sternum and against himself, Dean swallowed, looking down at her, wondering at her game. Her hand moved further down and she gently touched the pendant still hanging around his neck -  _

 

_ \- his hand snapped up and grabbed hers as he glared down at her. _

 

_ “That’s off-limits,” he growled. “You didn't pay for that, sweetheart.” _

 

_ She huffed, pulling her hand away. “Sorry,” she said softly. “It just…” she hesitated and then offered him a small, tremulous smile.  _

 

_ Before he could respond, she rolled away and bent down to pull out something from her bag, holding it up for him to see.  _

 

_ “It’s exactly like mine,” she finished. Dean paused, considering the pendant she held - in the dim light, it did look like an exact replica of his own, the same ritualistic face glinting yellow at him.  _

 

_ “Oh,” he said and she giggled, throwing it over her neck.  _

 

_ “What’s your story then, Dean?” she asked, settling back on the bed, snuggling in close. Dean startled, still uncomfortable with the close contact, but she was watching him curiously, no hint of derision on her face.  _

 

_ “My uh-” he cleared his throat, “My brother gave it to me… it used to be my mom’s, my uncle found it in her things after she passed... he gave it to Sammy, and Sammy gave it to me.”  _

 

_ She started, staring up at him incredulously.  _

 

_ “You’re kidding!” she exclaimed and Dean raised an eyebrow questioningly. “ _ My _ brother gave this to me too!”  _

 

His second john of the day is a woman and she invites him back to her room for a few hours. Dean winces, but grabs the opportunity - one client means less work and more money and he needs every cent he can get. 

 

He’ll allow himself to feel like shit later. 

 

*-*-*

 

Castiel doesn’t know why he’s here - this is the bar, this is where Anna picked up Emma’s dad. 

 

He doesn’t let his uncertainty show as he strides in, heading towards the bartender. At the very least, he can get himself a drink - he needs it, he muses, as he plops down and waves at the bartender. 

 

_ Why is he here?  _

 

Claire and Emma are out, away, and he should be relaxing on his one night off of parenting - instead, he’s in a random bar in another town, tightly wound from the fact that this was where his sister very likely spent her last moments as a free woman before responsibility found her in the form of a surprise - but not unwelcome - pregnancy. 

 

Is this what normal people do? 

 

Meet random strangers in a bar, grind on them, have sex and then leave? How can one not be nauseated at the mass of sweaty, smelly, dirty bodies together? How can one pay attention to their lover, to learn them inside out, to give nuance to their every moan and every gasp? 

 

_ But then, _ he supposes,  _ a one-night-stand isn't for those things. _ It’s a release, a quick escape, and he wonders if he’s up for that as he downs the shot that the bartender places in front of him, raising his fingers up for a second one.

 

He has no intention of getting drunk - he has to drive back tonight - but he needs something to take the edge off, something to soothe this restless, empty chasm that’s opened up in his chest. 

 

Emma and Claire are out, are away, and  _ without  _ them, Castiel doesn’t know  _ what  _ to do with himself - what is his existence if not his girls? 

 

How is he to find meaning in himself? 

 

He’s numbly pondering whether this emptiness is something all parents feel when he sees it. 

 

God, he’s  _ beautiful.  _

 

Castiel isn’t drunk precisely, but he’s buzzed enough that he can let the attraction bubble up to the surface - the first time they met, Castiel saw those eyes and mastrubated to them. The second time, the man saved his daughter.

 

But it’s only now, away from the town where those responsibilities lay, where they were both different people, that Castiel can allow himself to admit just how much he wants him. 

 

Because, by the Lord, Dean Winchester is absolutely _ breathtaking.  _

 

He’s dressed in a leather jacket that hangs over broad shoulders, covered in a form-fitting t-shirt. The pants he’s wearing are sinfully tight, cradling the most gorgeous ass Castiel has ever seen and his mouth waters - what wouldn't he give to  _ bite  _ that ass? 

 

But it’s not just Dean’s ass or his shoulders that gets Castiel - the man’s face is turned away, but he remembers those eyes. 

 

Christ, those  _ eyes _ … so green, so fresh, and so filled with everything the man himself doesn’t say. In the short while Castiel has known him, he’s come to realize that Dean Winchester is not a man who expresses himself very well. But his eyes do the job for him - they’re wide and beautiful, reflecting a tortured soul that Castiel feels the urge to protect. 

 

_ How much has he had to drink?  _

 

Castiel forces himself to look away, pushing those fanciful thoughts to the back of his mind. So he’s attracted to Dea- _ Winchester, _ he reminds himself. He’s attracted to  _ Winchester  _ \- it’s nothing new that Castiel would feel physical attraction for someone. He’s known about his pansexuality for ages, known that he’s not averse to sex.

 

But Dean… something inside Castiel tells him that he won't be satisfied with just sex. And it terrifies him - because his first priority should be, is and will always be his daughters. 

 

Dean - and Sam - can only come after, no matter how much Castiel likes the latter, no matter how much Castiel wants to get to know the former and make a part of his life. 

 

He should go and say hello, he knows; it’s what normal people would do. He should head there and tell Dean that it’s nice to see him here, isn’t that what he’s supposed to do? 

 

He gets up, about to do exactly that when he sees it. 

 

The man Dean is talking to smirks at him in what he recognizes as a seductive manner. Castiel freezes in his tracks, turning away quickly, his heart sinking. He has no right to feel this way, no right to feel like the world is falling in on him, but for a moment… for just a moment, he allowed himself to fantasize. 

 

_ This is good, _ he reminds himself, he has no time or energy or space in his life for a relationship. Meg broke him enough, broke enough of his illusions that he can't think of something now, or maybe ever… _ Claire and Emma _ have to be his priorities - he’s already ignoring them enough by just being here. 

 

So he turns back, intent on leaving, when he sees it. 

 

The man Dean was leaning close to and flirting with is walking out of the bar. Dean is standing, ready to follow him, but in this moment of silence, of heavy loneliness, when no one can see him…

 

Dean looks broken and  _ exhausted _ . 

 

Castiel stops, startled at that expression - maybe he’s being fanciful again, but he’s seen that expression on his own face in the mirror enough times to be able to recognize it. 

 

Dean doesn’t want to be here - he’s not actually interested in the guy he’s been flirting with. But he gets up anyway, throwing a quick smirk on to his face as the man turns back, raising an eyebrow. 

 

“You comin’, whore?” Castiel hears him ask and he stiffens, watching incredulously as Dean simply offers him a seductive smirk and nods. 

 

“Lead the way, handsome,” he answers, and the man walks away without waiting to see if the younger man is following. The moment his back turns, Dean’s face falls and he breathes in deeply, standing still for a long second, shoulders slumping. 

 

Then, as Castiel watches, he straightens up, stiffens his spine and strides out, arranging his expression into one of determination. 

 

And he can never quite say why he’s doing it, but Castiel jumps up and throws a couple of bills on to the counter, following after them. 

 

*-*-*

 

_ Dean woke alone.  _

 

_ Anna was nowhere to be seen, and for a moment, he began to panic, thinking she’d stiffed him on the payment. This… this was why he didn't spend the night with johns he liked, why he demanded payment before he serviced them - he wasn’t doing this for fucking fun, he  _ needed  _ the goddamned money -  _

 

_ Mother fucker, his  _ pendant. 

 

_ The familiar weight of it was missing from his chest and his breath hitched - Anna stiffed him on the payment and then stole his pendant?  _

 

_ What. The. Fuck - _

 

_ He jumped up, rage coursing hot through his veins, about to march out in search of her, when his eyes fell on the nightstand.  _

 

_ There, lying innocently on top of a piece of paper, was his pendant. His heart pounded and he pounced on it, quickly yanking it over his neck, breathing a sigh of relief as it settled against his heart, the weight warm and comforting. _

 

_ He bent down to pick up the paper - next to it, there was a wad of rolled up cash, definitely more than what they had discussed.  _

 

**_Thank you, Dean,_ ** _ the note read,  _ **_for a wonderful night. I hope you’re able to look after your brother with this; it’s more than what you asked for, but if there’s anyone who deserves it, it’s you._ **

 

_ Dean paused; fuck, he’d not only had sex with her, not only sold himself to her, he’d  _ confessed  _ things he’d been holding back for a long bloody time. Anna had stared at him with wide, doe-eyes and told him about the younger brother she’d left behind when she’d left her family, and in that moment, he’d broken.  _

 

_ God, he’d just… how  _ pathetic  _ was he that he just let himself  _ spill _? To a random  _ stranger _?  _

 

_ He’d even told her his  _ Mom’s  _ name -  _ **_Mary,_ ** _ he remembered telling her, burying himself in the hot, wet, warmth of her, as she keened her pleasure out, gasping out his name. They’d gone at least three times last night, and despite himself, Dean had enjoyed her, enjoyed her company.  _

 

_ She was a stranger, and yet, in one night, she’d afforded him more warmth than he could remember getting from his own father in over two decades. And he’d just been so tired, so exhausted, so fucking lonely that he’d let go, let himself be free for once.  _

 

_ And she’d  _ paid  _ for it - she’d left behind at least another five hundred dollars, from the looks of it. It would take care of food for the next two whole months.  _

 

_ His cheeks burned from the shame of it, but Dean didn't hesitate - money was money no matter where it came from and food was food and fuck Dean’s pride or ego in the face of Sam’s welfare.  _

 

_ So he picked it up and walked out, dirty and disgusted with himself, but also relieved that he wouldn't have to do this again - _

 

But he does, doesn’t he?

 

He leaves the woman’s room and picks up his third john of the night; another tall, burly man who insults him by calling him  _ whore  _ and  _ slut _ . To be fair, he did insist that humiliation play is his favorite thing to do and as much as it makes Dean want to vomit, the guy is nice, is willing to pay the amount he’s demanding and he really has no reason to deny him -

 

\- except that he’s exhausted.

 

The guy doesn’t even want anything much, just to rut against Dean and whisper dirty things into his ears. And Dean lets himself be manhandled, lets him be pushed face-first into the wall, lets the guy rut against him and come against his ass, his pants dragged out of the way so it wouldn’t get dirty. 

 

The guy’s nice, really, offering him the cash almost sweetly, even thanking him for it, before he steps away. Dean forces a smile on to his face and waves him off, bending down to pull his pants up, straightening up tiredly - 

 

\- only to come face-to-face with a pair of the same, familiar blue eyes he’s been dreaming about for the past week, even if he won’t admit it to anyone but himself. 

 

“Hello, Dean,” comes the rough, whiskey-soaked voice. 

 

And Dean does the only thing he can think of. 

 

He flees. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER THOUGHTS -
> 
> I'm looking forward to the next bits; what I have planned is essentially a confrontation that cements the Destiel relationship, so FINALLY! On the other hand, you should probably head over to my [ Tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dusky-gold) and yell at me... or y'know, just to read the fluffy drabbles I post over there. :P I wanted to compile the list and put it up here, but it's 1.30 a.m., and I have class in the morning, so that'll come later sometime this week! Hope y'all enjoyed this one - please heed the tags and always be safe while reading, my loves! 
> 
> See y'all in two weeks!


	13. Confront Me and I Will Tell You the Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is called in for a face-to-face meeting with Castiel; meanwhile, Balthazar and Gabriel meet with a familiar redhead and revelations are made. Some angst, but mostly plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unedited and Unbeta'd because I wanted to get this out there before I hit the sack... I'm not even gonna try to make my 9 p.m., deadlines, because I suck at being punctual... :P
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS - Mentions and recollections of prostitution, self-recrimination, self-hate, mentions of drug addiction and rehab, panic attacks, mentions of death 
> 
> If I've missed any triggers/tags, please let me know. Enjoy!

**Chapter 12 - Confront Me and I Will Tell You the Truth**

 

Crowley shows upon Monday evening, as promised.

 

Dean’s on edge; he’s  _ been  _ on edge the whole fucking weekend - every knock, every ring of the phone or even the doorbell… it’s all suspect. 

 

Because Casper Goddamned Newman  _ saw  _ him getting himself fucked, saw him whoring it up, and Dean’s terrified that the high school teacher is going to report him to the cops. No matter how much he tries, he can't really defend himself; he doesn’t want to either. He’s a consenting adult and what he does with his body is nobody’s business but his own - he needed a lot of cash, fast and he did what he had to do. 

 

But that’s not how the authorities will look at it. 

 

Sam’s still a minor and he’s responsible for a child - there is no way anyone will let a  _ prostitute  _ raise a child, especially when they’ve been on his ass since day one. 

 

So Dean can’t do anything but wait on edge, wait until Newman reports him. A part of him wonders if he should head to the school and beg the guy to keep his trap shut, but he’s too ashamed, too tired and too worried - Crowley’s gonna demand the cash on Monday and he has no time to freak about Sam’s high school teacher. 

 

Which is why he agrees to spend Saturday night with a customer - he’s already told Sam he isn’t coming home, and even after fleeing the bar, he wanders the streets, numbly looking for customers,  _ because he needs the fucking cash.  _

 

He shuts down, shoves it all away and accepts when the man offers him a thousand bucks for the whole night. It’s almost farcical, the way good luck strikes him immediately after he was  _ seen _ . But Dean takes it - he needs all the good fucking luck he can get right now. 

 

The whole night is a blur, to be honest. He has no idea how he gets through it; he’s numb, mind blank, his only thought to move, move,  _ move -  _

 

He sneaks into the house, tiptoeing past a sleeping Sam. The kid’s passed out on the table, books spread out around him, snoring away lightly, and Dean pauses, cash in hand, eyes falling on his younger brother. 

 

And it hits him -  _ Casper Newman _ saw him. 

 

He  _ saw  _ him. 

 

The dam breaks; Dean rushes to his bedroom blindly, eyes burning, panic seizing at his chest, a debilitating, live thing that doesn’t allow him to breathe, to  _ see _ , he can’t  _ breathe _ , god,  _ why can't - _

 

He collapses on his bed, dry heaving, rasping and gasping.  _ Motherfucker _ , how could he be so  _ stupid _ ? He should’ve stayed, should’ve tried to reason with Newman, maybe explained -

 

But what could he have said? 

 

That he doesn’t have money, that he’s being blackmailed by Sam’s drug supplier? Yeah, that’ll fly over well with the authorities. No way in hell Newman’s keeping quiet in the face of drug dealers; as it is, Sam’s addiction was strike two for CPS - if Dean’s caught, then it’s all over. 

 

Which is why he drags himself out of bed, a bitter taste in his mouth as he counts the cash. 

 

He’s just fifty bucks short.

 

Dean exhales through his mouth, ignoring the quiet tears that rasp down his face - he’s screwed himself over, but at least Sam won't fall into his habit again. Crowley can suck it; Dean’ll have to cut down on the groceries for the month and dip into his savings, but he can pay the British dick and get Sam out. 

 

Sam’s  _ safe.  _

 

That worry eases, but he still can't breathe easy. 

 

He goes to work on Monday, strung tight, expecting CPS to march up any second, to tell him that he’s not a fit guardian for Sam, that he’s a  _ whore  _ and a  _ slut _ , and they’re taking away his brother to place with a _ ‘good family’.  _

 

God, he was so stupid - so  _ utterly  _ idiotic to think that he was safe in the next town. He should’ve gone further, should’ve been more careful, shouldn’t have let his guard down. And now he could  _ lose  _ Sam. 

 

“Ah, cupcake.” 

 

Crowley’s voice is almost a welcome distraction - there’s one demon he can exorcise at least. He can make sure that Sam won't slip back into the habit, well, not because of Crowley and his goons. 

 

Son of a bitch, he’s just so  _ tired _ . 

 

All he wants is to crash, to lie down and sleep and relax, truly relax as he hasn’t in he doesn’t remember how long. He wants one night - just  _ one  _ night - to himself, to relax and not worry about bills and drug deals and brothers and absent fathers. 

 

“Crowley,” he growls in response, glad that Bobby didn't fight him on closing up tonight. All the others have left and the elder man eyed him angrily, ready to stage an intervention, but Dean turned his back deliberately on him and the garage owner had simply muttered  _ idjit _ , slapped the back of his head and stalked out, grumbling under his breath. 

 

“I love it when you get so growly, squirrel,” Crowley smirks, “So manly and alpha male… I assume then, from your yipping, that you’ve got my money?”

 

Dean doesn’t answer, simply opening up the drawer where he stuffed the cash this morning and pulls out the crumpled wad of bills. Silently, he hands it over to the big, beefy, guard standing next to the smarmy dick. 

 

“Count it,” Crowley commands and Beefy Guy 1 hands half the cash to Beefy Guy 2. The short Englishman, however, turns to Dean, who’s watching them tensely. 

 

“Well, squirrel,” he drawls, “I wasn’t expecting you to meet my deadline, to be honest… quite resourceful, I must say.”

 

“Fuck off, Crowley,” Dean snaps. “You’ve got your cash. Now leave me and Sam alone.” 

 

“It’s all here, boss,” Beefy Guy 2 looks up and nods at Crowley, who lets out a low whistle. 

 

“Looks like the moose and I won't be meeting any time soon, after all,” he smirks and Dean snarls, wound so tight, he might snap at any second. If Crowley demands more, asks for more, he  _ can't _ , there isn't  _ anything  _ he can do, he  _ can't  _ -

 

The punch that knocks him out is almost welcome at this point and Dean, mercifully, takes this as permission to pass the fuck out. 

 

*-*-*

 

Castiel pauses as he walks into class on Monday morning.

 

Sam Winchester is sitting alone in desk at the edge of the room again, cut off from the rest of the students. He’s holding up a book in his hands - Castiel sees that it’s their copy of Ulysses for the term - and he’s frowning, diligently taking notes on the paper in front of him. 

 

And the expression on Dean’s face, the expression of terror and horror and such  _ shame  _ \- it flashes behind Castiel’s eyes for the millionth time since that night and he winces, clenching his fists as he tries to shut it out. 

 

Good lord, what was he  _ thinking _ ? 

 

He should never have gone to the bar that night, should never have left Sioux Falls. And if he did, why the hell did he follow Dean out? What gave him the right? 

 

Back home now, having deconstructed that night more times than he can count, Castiel can admit to himself - he was worried. Hearing Dean be called a  _ whore _ , that exhausted expression on his  _ face _ , the tired slump of his shoulders and the way the man straightened himself and slapped a fake smile on to his face… 

 

But that wasn’t it all, was it? 

 

His cheeks flame - because Castiel was  _ jealous  _ at the sight. 

 

He followed Dean because he was worried, because he wanted to make certain the man was safe. He’d come out, instead, to see Dean pushed against the alley, his partner rutting against him and Dean moaning softly, pushing his backside against the man -

 

\- and for one, glorious moment, Castiel  _ wanted _ . He let himself feel, let himself imagine what it might be like to be the one holding Dean down and fucking him, or even better, cradling that beautiful face and kissing him as he came. 

 

And the fantasy shattered as the man threw money at Dean. 

 

Because Dean  _ wasn’t  _ enjoying this - Castiel wasn’t against sex-workers who enjoyed their jobs, but the utter expression of defeat on the man’s face was telling. He wasn’t turning tricks because he wanted to, which meant that he was doing it out of some kind of necessity. 

 

Why on earth did he approach him then - why would he reveal himself,  _ who  _ says  _ hello  _ in a situation like that? 

 

_ A part of him is as sick as his brothers, _ Castiel muses bitterly. He was  _ jealous  _ of Dean’s customer and the urge to  _ protect _ , to draw Dean into a tender embrace was so overwhelming for a moment that he just… he went to say  _ hello _ . 

 

Dean fled, of course. 

 

The expression of horror and fear that his features arranged themselves into was like a punch in the gut; before Castiel could say anything, before he could offer any reassurance, the man  _ ran _ . He can't blame him; he’s been cursing his own stupidity all weekend, preoccupied enough that even Claire and Emma noticed when they came back from Jody’s. 

 

His girls were excited and happy and energized from their night at the Sheriff’s. Claire seems to have made a new friend in Owen, who knows a little bit of sign-language; Jody told him that her son is trying to learn more because he’s determined to be Claire’s friend. Warmth suffused Castiel at that -  _ Claire’s so cut off, _ he worries. But both she and Emma had fun, judging by their non-stop chattering and shrieks as they came home. 

 

The rest of the weekend was a blur of stories, fun and nonsensical plan-making that accompanies all children’s excitement. It keeps him distracted, makes him smile, because whether the break helped  _ him  _ or not, his girls certainly seemed to have had fun and that makes all the difference. 

 

But now, standing here, at the edge of his classroom, watching the younger brother of the man he’s been occupied with work so hard to catch up, he can't help the way his heart sinks. 

 

Because, now that he thinks about it, it’s bloody obvious why Dean’s doing what he is.

 

_ Sam.  _

 

Castiel remembers the exhaustion and the fear and the constant gnawing worry; when he left the estate with Claire, they literally had nothing but the clothes on their backs. He didn't want to take any money with him - if Lucifer or Michael caught wind of it, they could use the paper trail to trace it back to them and Castiel was taking no chances, not even with cash. 

 

And it was  _ terrifying  _ \- for all that he left the estate for noble reasons, for all that he fled because he could no longer stand the bloodshed and the murder, he didn't know  _ how  _ to live in normal society. Castiel - and by extension, Claire - was sheltered; the estate had butlers and servants and  _ money _ . He’d never worked a job, never worried about where the next meal was coming from or how he was going to keep the electricity on. 

 

He remembers his first job at the Gas-n-Sip, remembers kind-hearted Nora, who took one look at his shivering, trembling form clutching at a traumatized, mute Claire, and decided to give him his job. It didn't last more than two weeks - Anna tracked him down and took him in, but he remembers the desperation and the fear and the panic of not being able to feed his child. And when Anna died, she left him the cash she’d taken from the family; he’ll never have to worry about money again. 

 

He can't say that he wouldn't have made the same choices Dean did; if it’s the only way, he  _ knows  _ he’ll sell himself without thought to keep Claire - and now, Emma - safe. 

 

So he doesn’t condemn Dean for the choice; he  _ understands  _ it. 

 

But what does he do? How does he tell the elder Winchester that he isn’t going to report him? 

 

And what of Sam? Castiel doubts that his student knows how his brother is paying for his education, but between bills and working himself to the bone, does Dean have time to make sure Sam is doing well, particularly given his addiction and rehabilitation? 

 

“Mr. Newman?” 

 

Castiel starts at the female voice, whirling around to see Eileen Leahy standing there with a frown on her face. His expression softens and he tilts his head at the young girl, raising his hands to sign to her. 

 

_ Good morning.  _

 

She smiles back, signing back easily.  _ Morning. Why are you standing out here? _

 

He flushes, shaking his head. 

 

“My apologies,” he murmurs, “I was distracted.” 

 

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees that Sam’s noticed them by now and is putting his book to the side. Ignoring the way his gut clenches with worry, he gestures for Eileen to go into the classroom, following her himself. 

 

Eileen hesitates a moment, lingering at the middle row, where she usually sits, and Castiel watches silently as she straightens up, nodding to herself. He’s a bit surprised when he passes her seat and heads to where Sam is seated. Shooting him a small smile, she plops into the empty chair beside him. 

 

_ Hello, Sam, _ she signs, mouthing the words as she makes them. 

 

Castiel can't help the heavy feeling in his gut as he observes the utterly dumbfounded look on Sam’s face - clearly, the teenager did not expect her to be so friendly or even address him. 

 

It reminds him of Claire’s excitement at finally having made a friend of her own. 

 

How  _ lonely  _ is Sam? How lonely is  _ Dean _ ? 

 

“H-hi, Eileen,” Sam stutters, hazel eyes wide and darting about suspiciously. She grins back, bumping her shoulders with his and then grabs his book, frowning. 

 

_ What are you working on?  _

 

“Ulysses,” he answers cautiously.  _ I’m doing a quick character study. _

 

“Cool, can I take a look?” 

 

Sam turns away abruptly, hands trembling. 

 

“Eileen,” Castiel hears him whisper,  _ look, I get that you’re trying to be nice. But you’re new here and associating yourself with me -  _

 

_ Is my choice, _ the brunette interrupts him with a roll of her eyes, her fingers somehow conveying her derision of the rest of the school easily.  _ I want to be your friend, Sam, if you’ll let me. This place…  _

 

She hesitates, and Castiel misses the rest of the conversation as the rest of his class filters in, chattering away loudly. The sounds of teenage laughter and calls and shouts fill the room for a few minutes, and he’s distracted, returning  _ hellos  _ and  _ good mornings. _

 

When he turns back in their direction again, finally, Sam and Eileen seem to have come to some kind of understanding. He’s smiling at her shyly and Eileen is grinning widely, and suddenly, Castiel feels ridiculously glad. 

 

Sam needs a friend. And, Castiel suspects, so does Eileen - the halls of Sioux Falls is stupidly ableist and even if she attends school, she has few people she hangs out with regularly. 

 

So he doesn’t draw attention to them, allowing them their space, instead calling the class to himself and starting the class. 

 

As he calls out Sam’s name in attendance, it occurs to him - it’s not just Sam that needs a friend. 

 

Dean needs one too. 

 

Sighing quietly, he pulls out the mock midterm quizzes he’s been preparing and amid groans and moans, distributes them to his students, who grumble as they start their tests. 

 

He’ll never openly admit it, but Castiel is beginning to think that maybe, just maybe,  _ he  _ is need of one as well. 

 

*-*-*

 

Dean drags himself to work on Tuesday morning, exhausted and worried. When he woke up yesterday, he was alone, Crowley and his goons having slipped out after knocking him out. His head is ringing from the hard punch and his side hurts, not fully healed from Gordon and his goons yet, though the swelling’s gone down. 

 

But honestly, he can't give a fuck - because he’s wound so damn tight, it’s almost an effort to breathe at times. 

 

Crowley may be off his back (he hopes; the son of a bitch didn't exactly say anything before creeping out like the cockroach he is), but Casper friggin’ Newman still hasn’t done anything, and Dean’s expecting CPS on his doorstep at any moment now. 

 

It terrifies him - he took custody of Sam, gave up college for his brother, and already, CPS knows him for being the neglectful brother who let the child he’s responsible for get addicted to, almost OD on and then wean himself off of drugs. 

 

What would they say if they knew he was a whore too? 

 

Swallowing hard, Dean pushes into the garage. He’s glad that Bobby is taking the day off today. He doesn’t he’s got the energy to do the whole avoidance game - both Bobby and Ellen (not to mention Jo) have been giving him the stink-eye for a while now, and he’s sure they’re planning another fucking intervention. 

 

He jumps at every sound, worries at every call he gets. Goddamn Newman - why, why,  _ why  _ was he stupid enough to go to Dell Rapids? Why didn't he fucking head further? 

 

What choice did he have? 

 

His head feels heavy, thoughts bouncing back and forth and all Dean wants to do is collapse. He’s tired in a way that goes beyond the physical; he doesn't know  _ what  _ he’ll do if Sam gets taken away. 

 

Which is why the call, when it finally comes, is a bloody blessing. 

 

“Hello,” he growls, rubbing his temples. 

 

“Mr. Winchester.”

 

Fuck -  _ fuck _ , he’d know that voice anywhere. He’s been dreaming of it for the past week, has been jerking off to it in the shower since the day he was saved by the man. 

 

“You,” he greets stiffly. “Me. Newman, I-”

 

He dries up, throat going tight. 

 

What does he even  _ say  _ at this point? How can he defend himself? 

 

How can he pretend that he  _ isn't  _ what Newman saw?

 

His breath seizes in his chest and the world feels too tight, he wants  _ out _ , he wants his skin to not be this tight, he wants his hands to fucking  _ stop shaking - _

 

“Mr. Winchester, I’d appreciate it if you could stop by this evening,” Newman says. Dean can't detect any hint of derision in his tone, but shame, hot and wet, prickles at his neck. His eyes burn and he swallows hard. 

 

“I’d like to discuss something important with you,” he continues. 

 

_ Fuck.  _

 

Dean’s blood runs cold and panic closes in. He can't hear anything but the way his blood pounds in his ears. 

 

“Newman,” he feels his mouth forming the words, but he feels detached, as though he’s watching it all from the side, as though he isn't controlling his own body. 

 

“Please, man, you can't-”

 

“It’s alright, Dean,” Newman cuts in, “Please just come by my office after school today.”

 

And before Dean can respond, the call cuts out, line going dead. He stares at the receiver in his hands, mind blank, utterly numb before it hits him. 

 

Newman wants to speak to him about something important. 

 

Casper Newman, Sam’s high school teacher, who  _ saw  _ Dean get paid for sex outside a shady bar, wants to _ speak to him about something important.  _

 

Mother _ fucker.  _

 

*-*-*

 

Sam’s failed his test. 

 

Castiel sighs as he raises his hands to massage his eyes with his palms. His heart feels heavy; Dean -  _ Mr. Winchester,  _ he reminds himself - Mr. Winchester sounded so desperate on the phone, so tired, it makes him want to reassure the man the same way he’d reassure his girls when they’re crying. 

 

But he’s being fanciful again. Dean doesn’t need reassurance or saving; Castiel is setting himself up to be a white knight here, and that’s not what Dean needs. 

 

It’s not what Sam needs either. 

 

Castiel’s first and foremost priority has to be his student, he tells himself. Sam failed the mock test he gave out yesterday, which means that he’s in no way prepared for the upcoming midterm exams. 

 

That’s the only reason he’s called Dean in to speak to him - Sam might need extra tutoring to be able to catch up, and Castiel doesn’t know how he’ll find the time for that, but he needs to discuss it with Dean before he can fix this situation. 

 

Or that’s what he tells himself - he refuses to admit that he simply wants to see Dean again, that he wants to get to know the man with the beautiful green eyes who’d do anything for his family, just like Castiel himself would for his girls. 

 

Missouri warned him, told him that something big was going to happen Halloween night - he wonders if meeting Dean that night was it. 

 

Because Dean  _ intrigues  _ him, makes him want things he’s thought he’s long since buried deep within himself. 

 

Pushing the thought away, Castiel rubs at his eyes, looking up at the clock. It’s just after school’s let out and Dean should be here any minute now. 

 

As if on cue, the knock comes and the dark-haired man turns to the door. He’s not surprised that Dean is a punctual person; a part of him wonders if the elder Winchester ever sleeps, if he ever just takes a break. 

 

Snorting at himself, he answers, “Come in.”

 

The door swings forward and in walks the man who has been at the forefront of Castiel’s thoughts longer than he can remember. 

 

Dean’s entire form is stiff, taut with tension, face pinched and shoulders drawn straight. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, and though they’re hidden from sight, Castiel can see the way his fists clench and unclench through the material of his rough jeans. There’s a smear of grease on his cheek - he’s a mechanic, Castiel remembers vaguely - but ‘s those eyes that draw his attention. Again. 

 

The bright green of the irises are dull and red-rimmed, speaking of an exhaustion far beyond the man’s young age. 

 

And Castiel’s stomach tightens - he recognizes the expression as the same one he sees on his face in the mirror every morning. 

 

He wakes up everyday wondering if  _ today  _ is it, if  _ today  _ will be the day that Michael or Lucifer or Uriel or any one of his family will find him and destroy his life and his girls. It doesn’t take long to deduce that Dean’s wondering if  _ today  _ will be the day his brother will be taken away from him. 

 

The thought makes Castiel pause - he and Dean… they’re mirror images of one another in a way, both desperate to keep their family safe, both struggling to keep their heads afloat. 

 

Hit by the burning need to help, to offer him a  semblance of comfort, Castiel gestures to the chair in front of him. 

 

“Please, have a seat, Mr. Winchester,” he says. 

 

Dean glares back at him. Castiel jumps as he moves forward, banging his hands down on his desk, stepping into his space and looking down at him without blinking. 

 

“Look,” he snaps, “I dunno what game you’re playin’, but if this is about that night at the bar-”

 

There’s a direct defiance on that face, and those viridian eyes are wide and angry, as though daring Castiel to refute him. 

 

It makes him want to yank the man forward and mash their mouths together - Dean is not apologizing for his actions, he’s not backing away. And that spark of defiance, propelled by the love of his brother, no doubt, just makes him that much more attractive to Castiel. 

 

Lord, but he needs to reign it in. Yes, he can admit it now - he  _ wants  _ Dean. 

 

But that can't ever happen, that  _ cannot  _ have a bearing on how he’s going to treat him going from here. Because he has no time for romance or any kind of a distraction right now. His girls must be his top priority, and as a teacher, his students must come in a close second on his list. 

 

Dean Winchester - no matter how beautiful, no matter how much Castiel wants him - cannot be allowed to distract him. 

 

But that doesn’t mean that Castiel can't be his friend, if only because  _ he  _ wants a friend himself. 

 

“Mr. Winchester,” he interrupts, “Please have a seat and we can discuss this like civilized adults.” 

 

Dean pulls back, eyeing him warily. He clenches his fists but Castiel ignores his aggressive stance studiously, raising a curious eyebrow in return. The mechanic pauses, straightening himself up and then sits down opposite to the teacher, shoulders stiff, expression still angry. 

 

He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can protest again, Castiel pulls out Sam’s mock test and places it in front of him. 

 

“I’m sorry to say this,” he says. “But Sam’s failed the mock quiz I gave the class in preparation for their upcoming midterm exams. It’s understandable, of course, given that he’s joined us halfway, but-” 

 

“ _ Sam _ failed?” Dean sounds confused. 

 

Castiel tilts his head, “Indeed,” he agrees. “I’m not surprised, the workload is heavy and Sam is-”

 

“What  _ exactly  _ are you implying?” Dean snaps. “That he’s stupid? Because he’s an addict?”

 

Castiel glares at him. “I never said that, Mr. Winchester,” he snaps back. “Sam’s a smart student, in fact, he’s one of the smartest I’ve ever met. But he’s failed this test, which means that he’s in trouble for the midterm, and as his  _ guardian _ , I thought you ought to-” 

 

“Why don't you just come right out and say it?” Dean snarls, jumping up again. “Why don't you just openly admit that you think a  _ whore  _ shouldn't be raising a child?”

 

Silence falls between them, the fading sunlight highlighting the exhausted disgust on Dean’s face. Castiel breathes out softly, leaning back in his chair and meeting those defiantly tired eyes without hesitation. 

 

“Mr. Winch- _ Dean _ ,” he corrects himself. “What you do in your private life… it has no bearing on-”

 

“But it does, don't you see?” Dean lets out a biting laugh and it hurts Castiel to hear it. “He’s already been addicted to drugs and then to rehab under  _ my  _ custody. A  _ whore  _ is a  _ whore  _ is a  _ junkie _ , Mr. Newman.”

 

There’s an ugly self-recrimination in the man’s words that Castiel recognizes; it isn't  _ Castiel  _ he’s angry with, it’s himself. 

 

He feels the same way about his family, about not getting Claire out earlier than he did. If he had the sense to, perhaps she wouldn't be mute today, perhaps she wouldn't have lost her innocence as early as she did. 

 

“Dean,” he begins again, making his voice as firm and as stern as he can. Dean’s eyes snap to his, wide and uncomprehending and Castiel stands up as well, meeting him head on. 

 

“I won't presume to know what you’re going through,” he says quietly. “I’m not in the habit of judging or reporting others for what they do as long as they’re not hurting anyone. Sam isn't the first addict I’ve encountered, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that addiction is as much an illness as pneumonia or hepatitis and has to be treated as such.” 

 

Dean’s face arranges itself into an expression of disbelief and suspicion, like he isn't sure about what he’s hearing. 

 

Castiel forges on, refusing to back down. “And the only reason I called you in here today is to discuss what we can do for Sam - he’s an extremely smart young man, with a lot of potential. I’d like to make sure he fulfills that potential.”

 

“But he  _ failed  _ this test!” Dean looks like he’s going to snap at any minute. He close to his breaking point, Castiel can tell, and so he simply smiles and shakes his head. 

 

“Because he joined us late,” he counters, “Not because he’s stupid or because he hasn't been trying hard enough. On the contrary, Sam works harder in his class than most of my other students. He just needs a bit of extra time to catch up.” 

 

He pauses, eyeing Dean warily. “I’d suggest a tutor,” he says cautiously. “Someone who can help Sam quickly catch up before the midterms begin.” 

 

Dean’s face falls. “How much would that cost?” he asks roughly.

 

Castiel sighs, frowning. He hears the unasked question -  _ how many more men and women would he have to service to meet this demand?  _

 

“I’m not sure,” he admits, “I’m sure we can find another student who might be interested in extra credit for tutoring…” he trails off as Dean scowls again. 

 

“Yeah, because there are so many of them who’d wanna tutor the town junkie,” he says bitterly. 

 

Castiel falls quiet, knowing that there isn't much he can say to that. Because he saw it even today - Sam Winchester  _ is  _ a student ostracized by the rest of the school and there isn't much he can do about it. 

 

“ _ I _ could,” he’s almost surprised to hear himself offer. “I could do extra lessons with him in the evenings, after school-”

 

Christ, what is he  _ doing _ ? 

 

He has enough on his plate without adding to it; he still has to find a babysitter to replace Becky and neither Claire nor Emma will be happy about him staying extra time at school. 

 

“Why’re you doin’ this?” Dean interrupts. There’s a sharp, unreadable look in his eyes and Castiel finally looks away, unable to meet that piercing, burning gaze. 

 

“I’m not a fucking charity case,” he continues irately. “I don't need you to-”

 

_ Lord,  _ no. 

 

Castiel doesn’t want to save them, he’s not trying to… is  _ that  _ what Dean thinks? 

 

“Sam helped my daughter,” he cuts in and Dean blinks, startled. “ _ You _ helped my daughter…  _ both  _ of you, Dean, have kept Claire and Emma safe, even when you didn't know them. I just want to return the favor.” 

 

“I-Sam...what?” Dean frowns and Castiel offers him a tired smile. 

 

“After Halloween,” he offers, “Sam didn't tell you…? I brought Claire to school with me and he kept her company since he was the only one who could understand her…”

 

He leaves the statement open-ended, wondering if Dean will fill in the blanks. It’s not completely uncommon for people to know sign language, of course, but it’s still a bit strange, that this gruff mechanic and his smart but struggling younger brother would speak it so well. 

 

There’s a story behind it and Castiel wants to know it. But he reigns the impulse in; neither Dean nor Sam are obligated to tell him and Castiel isn't entitled to anything from them. He’s simply the latter's English teacher and that’s all he has to focus on for now. 

 

An expression of understanding flits across Dean’s face. “How’s the kiddos?” he asks, voice softening, still gruff but somehow sweeter. “They doin’ alright?”

 

“They’re doing well, thank you,” he answers, lips curving at the way Dean takes time to ask after his girls. “Sam helped me bring Emma home that day, after she ran away from the grocery store… she had a fight with Claire,” he offers by way of an explanation. 

 

It startles a chuckle  out of the mechanic - the smile transforms his entire face, the lines around his eyes disappearing and his freckles standing out. Castiel swallows; Dean’s  _ beautiful _ , and now that he’s let himself admit his attraction out loud, it doesn't seem to be letting Castiel go. 

 

“Stubborn critter, isn’t she?” he asks amusedly and the teacher finds himself nodding in agreement. 

 

“Takes after her mother,” he sighs. Dean’s expression turns sharp again, but this time Castiel sees a hint of curiosity there. 

  
“Dean,” he jumps in before Dean can ask - there’s no way he’s going to talk about Anna right now, especially not with Dean. “The point is, Sam requires assistance to catch up. He’s smart, but without extra tutoring, I’m not certain he can keep up. If you’ll let me, I can-”

 

Dean’s face closes off again, the smile vanishing. And Castiel knows what he’s going to say before he can say it. 

 

“No thank you,” he says harshly. “I’ll handle it.”

 

“Dean,” Castiel begins, “I’m his teacher, I can-”

 

“I’ll  _ handle  _ it, Mr. Newman,” he snaps. 

 

And it seems like a stretch, asking for Dean’s permission to tutor his brother, but Castiel has a feeling that the elder Winchester isn't the kind of man to accept help easily. 

 

“Midterms are very close,” he warns. 

 

“I’ll deal with it,” Dean barks. “Sammy’s my priority, I’ll make sure he doesn’t fail.”

 

Castiel has no doubt that he will; suddenly, if there’s one thing about Dean Winchester he knows with absolute certainty, it’s that he will kill himself, but make sure his brother is well and safe and cared for. 

 

It’s what Castiel will do for his own grls. 

 

*-*-*

 

Charlie Bradbury isn't what he expected. 

 

Balthazar doesn't know what he was expecting, but a tiny redhead dressed in a shirt asking the reader to  _ Trek Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself _ isn't it. Neither is the whole jumping off the small, yellow-colored car (that frankly looks like it belongs in the Stone Age) and punching Gabriel in the face. 

 

The Englishman jumps up to defend his cousin, but it proves unecessary; Gabriel simply blocks her punch, pulling her into a headlock, holding her tightly and grunting. 

 

The sight is so familiar, it makes his throat go tight with emotion. With her crimson hair hiding her face and that small figure, Charlie could easily be Anna, having Gabriel teach her how to avoid being trapped in such a manner - because Charlie does exactly what Anna was taught to do. 

 

She ducks, stomps on Gabe’s foot and then throws him off of her as he winces in pain, his grip loosening. Whirling around one foot, she glares at him, hands on her hips and Gabriel huffs, smirking. 

 

“Sheesh, Red,” he grunts, “Go easy on a guy, wouldja?”

 

She snorts. “Sure,” she drawls, “Because you’re  _ so  _ pathetic, Gabriel Novak.”

 

For a long, quiet moment, she simply glares down at him and Gabriel stares back at her, not backing down. There’s a strange tension between them, almost like Charlie doesn’t want to admit how glad she is to see him, because Balthazar can see the small smile that’s reluctantly curving her lips, but there’s also a hesitance, and a tiredness that belies her young age. 

 

“Frickin’ hell, Gabe,” she finally sighs, holding a hand out to him. “You promised me I was out, asshole.”

 

There’s no heat behind her words, however, and Balthazar watches, fascinated and not a little bit jealous, as Gabe grasps her hand and pulls himself up. She’s almost as tall as him, he snorts to himself - Gabe yanks her in, hugging her tightly, patting her hair before letting her go. 

 

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” he says softly. “I didn't wanna pull you back in, I swear.” 

 

He looks truly contrite; Balthazar can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen that expression on his face. 

 

“What shit did you bury yourself in this time?” Charlie asks, as though this is nothing new, as though she’s used to Gabriel’s messes. 

 

It makes him wonder just how long and how deeply she’s connected to his cousin. A hot spike of jealousy lights his chest and he squishes it down; now is neither the time nor the place for them to hash this out. 

 

“Uh, Gabe?” he calls and the shorter man turns to him, arms still around the redhead. 

 

“Baz,” he calls back. 

 

“Mind introducing me to this lovely young lady?” he cuts in smoothly, sliding in to take her hand and kissing it softly. 

 

Charlie snorts again, turning to Gabriel. “Didn't tell him, I see,” she smirks and Balthazar frowns, confused. 

 

“What-?” he begins. 

 

“Wrong team, bucko,” Gabriel interrupts with a chuckle. Balthazar blinks. It takes him a moment to catch on before he flushes, shrugging lightly. 

 

“Still doesn't mean I cannot appreciate a pretty lady,” he flirts and she rolls her eyes, though her lips are still curved into a smirk. 

 

“Right, Casanova,” she answers. “Now mind tellin’ me what the hell I’m doing here instead of kicking ass with my army of Orcs?” 

 

Balthazar frowns and Gabriel simply chuckles. “Don't ask,” he warns, anticipating the question. 

 

The smile dies on his lips, however, as he turns back to the redhead. 

 

“It really  _ is  _ deep shit this time, Charlie,” he says, uncharacteristically serious. “Cassie’s in trouble.”

 

“I wish I could help, Gabe,” Charlie replies, “You know I do, but I’ve already gotten ‘em the fake IDs and everything else they could need. You promised I was out after I did that, Anna told me-”

 

“Anna’s dead,” Balthazar cuts in and she freezes, mouth snapping open and close in shock. 

 

“Baz!” Gabe snaps and Balthazar shrugs. He likes this lass, sure, but they aren't here for pleasantries. They’re here for a reason - not that the bloody git has even told him fully what it is - and he’s tired of beating round the bush. 

 

“An-Anna’s…  _ what _ ?” Charlie asks weakly and Gabriel exhales loudly, wrapping an arm around. 

 

For a long moment, they remain silent, the quiet echoing with all the things unsaid, the memories missed and the lives lost. 

 

“Was it Mike? Luci?” Charlie breaks it, her voice timid. “Was it like… Kali?”

 

Balthazar pauses as it hits him. 

 

_ This  _ was the girl - this was the girl that helped Kali convince Gabriel to get out of the drug business. 

 

He remembers now, remembers it so clearly even if it was more than a decade ago. Gabriel, young and a swash-buckling pirate if there ever was one, coming back to the estate one day and confessing that he was in love - with a fierce Indian woman no less. He remembers the way the idiot swooned poetic about her and about her redheaded best friend who was no less fun for all that she was a lesbian. 

 

He remembers trying to convince his cousin that this was a foolish venture, that it was doomed to fail before it began. He remembers Gabriel snorting at his warnings, remembers his broken expression after Michael and Lucifer warned him to stay away from the savage Indian slut, remembers Gabriel’s stubborn insistence that he wasn’t going to stay away from Kali. 

 

But most of all, he remembers the numb, lost look in his cousin’s eyes when he heard that she was dead. 

 

And then Anna was gone; Balthazar had barely any time to mourn her running away, because barely three weeks later, Gabriel, drunk, totaled himself and the expensive BMW he’d been driving. 

 

He was suddenly alone, suddenly left to his own devices. His only comfort was Cassie, still a teenager, still confused and lost. The two of them kept each other company, leaned on one another - Balthazar was the first person Cassie came to when he found out about Meg’s pregnancy. 

 

Suffice to say, Charlie Bradbury is not someone Balthazar can easily admit into his life - he doesn’t blame her, but she represents a part of his life he’d rather forget. 

 

“Lucifer,” Gabriel answers. “And Alistair.” 

 

Charlie draws in a sharp breath, eyes filling up as she swallows tightly. 

 

“And Castiel? Claire?” she asks. Balthazar frowns; just how much  _ does  _ this girl know?

 

“They’re okay,” Gabriel tells her. “And Anna’s daughter, Emma - she’s okay too.”

 

“Anna had a  _ daughter _ ?” Charlie gasps and Balthazar blinks - perhaps she doesn’t know everything after all. 

 

“Yeah,” he jumps in, “About three years old. Redhead, actually, like yourself.” 

 

Charlie offers him a watery smile before turning to Gabriel. 

 

“What’d you need from me, Gabe?” she asks. “I can't…”

 

“I promised Kali I’d keep you safe, kiddo,” he murmurs, “And I’ve tried… God knows, I’ve tried… but I can't do this without you.”

 

He looks at her, smiling weakly. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

 

“Gabe,” she sighs, leaning into him, “I want to help, you know I do… but my skills are limited. I can whiz up fake IDs for you, follow paper trails and make people miserable online, but I’m useless in a fight and you know it.”

 

“Which is why,” Gabriel responds, “I’m not asking you to do any more than crack this for us. Baz?” he turns to the blonde man, who simply pulls out the hard disk and hands it over quietly. 

 

“What’s this?” her brow furrows. Gabriel looks at Balthazar, expression calculating, and suddenly, all he wants to do is throw a bloody tantrum. 

 

Because his cousin is  _ hesitating  _ in his presence -  _ his _ . After everything, after all that he’s done… Gabe  _ still  _ doesn’t trust him. 

 

It stings. 

 

“I’ll be over there,” he announces harshly, “When you’re done sharing your secrets like teenage girls at a sleepover-”

 

“Woah, bucko,” Gabriel interrupts. “Calm down there. I’m just…”

 

“Just  _ what _ , Gabe?” he snaps, “Wondering if you can trust me? I… I can't -”

 

“I’m trying to  _ protect  _ you, Baz,” Gabriel retorts. “If you don't know, you can get away, you can still-”

 

“I don't  _ want  _ to be protected, Gabriel!” Balthazar yells, “I want the truth! Cassie’s out there, in danger, along with Emma and Claire - believe it or not, I care about them too.  _ I _ was the one who held Cassie through Claire’s birth,  _ I  _ was the one who comforted him after  _ you  _ faked your death!”

 

He sneers at his cousin, “Was  _ that  _ protection too?” 

 

Gabriel falls silent, unable to meet his eyes and Balthazar observes one red eyebrow raise up Charlie’s face as she turns to short man abruptly. 

 

“Gabe,” she says seriously. “Stop being a dick. If you want us to help, you gotta trust us. That’s how this works.” 

 

Her tone holds no room for argument. Gabriel eyes her warily and then looks between her and Balthazar, expression searching. Balthazar doesn’t turn away, meeting his gaze defiantly and Gabriel sighs, rolling his shoulders back and then takes Charlie’s hand, placing the hard disk on her palm. 

 

“I gave this to Deveraux,” he says, swallowing tightly. 

 

“Frank Deveraux?” Charlie asks and he nods. “And the ornery old son of a gun couldn't crack it?”

 

“He was killed,” Balthazar says shortly and she sniffles, breath hitching as she blinks away tears. 

 

“What does this have, Gabriel?” she asks quietly. “What’s so important that your brothers killed him for it?” 

 

“When Anna left,” Gabriel whispers, “I was the one to help her get out.”

 

Charlie nods, “And I got the fake IDs made for her.” 

 

Balthazar frowns; that’s something he didn’t know. But it makes sense - Anna would’ve needed to disappear and the trick to setting up a new identity is to build one with a history so that you aren’t flagged for suddenly popping up on the radar. 

 

“But both Anna and I knew - if she were to get caught… Mikey and Luci aren’t exactly forgiving bastards, are they?”

 

The pieces fall into place. 

 

“ _ Insurance _ ,” Balthazar hisses, “You gave Anna some sort of insurance.”

 

Gabriel’s smile is wan and tired. “Yeah,” he agrees. “The Sword.”

 

“And this contains The Sword?” Charlie looks down at the hard disk in her hand. 

 

Gabriel shakes his head. 

 

“No,” he mutters, “Anna lost it. Or rather…” he trails off, looking away and Balthazar doesn’t need to know his cousin as well as he does to know that he’s got tears in his eyes. 

 

“Gabe,” Charlie reaches out to embrace him, patting his shoulder. 

 

“Anna hid it,” he says finally. “And Deveraux was trying to find it.” 

 

“Which Mikey and Luci found out and offed him,” Charlie finishes. “Now it’s my turn.” 

 

Gabriel pulls back, holding her at arm’s length and looking at her squarely in the eyes. She doesn’t flinch, meeting his gaze steadily, fingers closing over the disk in her hands. 

 

“You could be in danger, Red,” he states. “Deveraux was killed.”   
  


“And so was Kali,” she whispers.

 

“You didn't volunteer for this,” Balthazar doesn’t know why he’s jumping in to her defense; his mind is reeling, still spinning from the revelation that Anna has, apparently, even from the grave, saved their arses, but the stubborn determination on this redhead’s face reminds him of her and he doesn’t want to see her hurt. 

 

“But now I volunteer,” she says. “What kinda douchebag stands by as the world ends?”

 

Gabriel chuckles slightly. “Not the world, kiddo. Just pretty much the whole American drug industry.”

 

She shrugs. “Big diff,” she smirks. “The big evil ones always need a special Sword.” She looks down at the hard disk and sighs. 

 

“So… you’re in?” Gabriel asks hesitantly. 

 

Charlie levels him with a steady look, lips curving into a ferocious smile. 

 

“They took out Kali, Anna, Deveraux and Sauron knows how many and who else,” she answers. “Hell yeah, I’m in.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER THOUGHTS -
> 
> AAAAANNNNDDD SHE'S HERE!!! Y'all know just how much I love Charlie, I've been so excited for her entry into this! The Dean/Cas confrontation scene went a total different direction that what I was initially planning, but meh... Oh well. We're moving into the Destiel of it, finally! 
> 
> See y'all in two weeks!


	14. Let's Play Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Jess resolve an old tension between them, but Jess's friends aren't happy about it. Meanwhile, things at The Roadhouse get a little heated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Allo everyone! If I say sorry and post the chapter now, do you promise to not come after me with pitchforks? No? Okay, come at me! (runs away and hides) 
> 
> On a more serious note, long-winded explanation at the bottom, with a couple announcements about this story, check 'em out. And enjoy! Also keep in mind that I did not do my schooling in North America; if there's anything in here about high-schools that isn't realistic... well, suspension of disbelief, yo. 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS - Bullying, ableism, low self-esteem, recollections of addiction, talk of addiction and mental health, teenage bullying and physical violence, mild dub-con in the bar, sexual harassment and consent issues

**Chapter 13 - Let's Play Tonight**

 

Thursday evening finds Sam still in the library, books propped across the table, pencils and pens spread out across him. School ended hours ago, but he doesn’t care - he wants to make sure that he’s well prepared for the upcoming midterms.

 

Because he failed Mr. Newman’s mock-quiz - _failed_ it.

 

It isn’t that Sam thinks of himself as super smart or a genius. But his academic record has always been spotless (except for the time he was with Ruby and high, but that’s a different story altogether) because he _enjoys_ learning. There was a time when he dreamt of going to places like Stanford and Harvard. He’s not dumb enough to believe that he can achieve that dream now, but at the very least he’d like to graduate with a good score.

 

So when Eileen asked him if he wanted to study after school, he didn't hesitate to say yes. They moved to the library as soon as the bell rang and they’ve been here since, Eileen seated straight across him, absorbed in her own book of math problems. She’s got her the end of her pen stuck in her mouth, biting down on it as she glares at the numbers and he can’t help but chuckle at the sight. His stomach growls a bit, reminding him that he hasn’t eaten anything today, but he ignores it.

 

She looks up at him at the sound, pulling her pen out and pursing her lips as he grins at her.

 

 _Not a fan of math?_ he signs and she glares back at him.

 

 _I hate it,_ she answers, fingers somehow conveying just how much derision she carries for the subject. _I’ll take workshop over math anyday._

 

He chuckles again, _You’d get along great with my brother,_ he answers and she rolls her eyes, jumping back into her book.

 

It’s nice, talking like this - he’s become quickly used to signing again, and with Eileen, the silence doesn’t seem oppressive. She’s a quiet person by nature, he’s discovered (no pun intended), and though she can talk, she prefers to sign. It comes in handy in a place like the library, but to Sam, Eileen’s a breath of fresh air. She doesn’t care about his baggage and she just wants a friend.

 

He forgot how it felt to have a friend. The last time he had a friend that isn’t Dean or Jo, it was Ruby, and no matter how much he tells himself it’s a good thing she’s out of his life, it doesn’t change the fact that he misses her.

 

God, he _misses_ her.

 

It’s a secret he’s buried deep within himself, refusing to even think about it - how can he _miss_ the girl who got him addicted, who nearly killed him and destroyed his relationship with his brother?

 

But he does.

 

Swallowing hard, he pushes the thought away - Eileen is not Ruby. They’re both tall, willowy girls with dark hair, but Eileen’s hard in a way he can’t remember Ruby being. Ruby was soft and sweet until she was demanding and taking and _taking -_

 

Eileen doesn’t hesitate to call him out if she sees something wrong; they’ve been friends for maybe a week, and already, he’s beginning to think that she won't let him get away with crap.

 

It’s a heady feeling, this kind of faith in someone. Because Eileen’s got baggage too - she doesn’t need to tell him for him to see it, but it’s there. In every sign, in every movement of her fingers, he recognizes a heaviness that resonates and it makes him comfortable in her presence in a way that’s not possible even with Dean.

 

It’s nice.

 

“Sam?”

 

Long hair flops in the air as he whirls around to face the only other girl he’s ever spent time with.

 

Jess stands there behind him, golden hair tied up in a messy bun, a few stray strands framing her pretty face. _She looks nervous,_ he notices, as she buries her hands in the pockets of her ripped jeans, knobby knees poking out through the holes.

 

“Hi Jess,” he says softly. Eileen looks up at that, brows furrowing as she shoots him an inscrutable look.  _Sam?_ she asks and he shakes his head.

 

 _It’s alright,_ he signs back. Jess’s expression turns confused and she quickly looks away and Sam swallows the sudden lump in his throat, because once upon a time, _Jess_ was the person who used to wait patiently as he wrote out his words on paper because he was so terrified to talk. She never learned ASL, but she was always so kind to him - he’d asked her out just as soon as he began to speak again.

 

Then Ruby came.

 

And it was all shot to hell.

 

Eileen’s frown deepens, but she doesn’t say anything, going back to her math textbook as Sam turns to talk to the blonde.

 

“What’s up, Jess?” he asks.

 

“I…” she hesitates, looking up, a guilty expression on her face. She bites her lip and he tilts his head in question.

 

“I wanted to apologize,” she blurts out. “About Jake… about… everything, I guess.”

 

Sam feels it like a sucker-punch - _he_ should be the one apologizing, not her. He was ready to ask her to be his girlfriend, ready to commit and then he’d gone and broken her heart.

 

“ _I’m_ sorry, Jess,” he answers quietly, “Jake and the others were only watchin’ out for you… they're your friends, they’ve every right.”

 

“There’s a difference between standing up for your friends and bullying people, Sam,” she points out; there’s a bitter note to her voice and he wonders at it.

 

“It’s not their fault,” he insists. “They… they didn't say anything wrong, after all.” He offers her a weak smile, the words _junkie_ and _addict_ echoing in his head. No, they’re not wrong, but… it hurts.

 

“No,” Jess says fiercely. “Sam, you’re-”

 

“An addict,” he cuts in, “It’s the truth.”

 

“Don't call yourself that,” Jess retorts.

 

“It’s who I am, Jess,” he answers softly. From across him, Eileen looks up, gives him an encouraging smile and nods before going back to her book.

 

Because yes, he’s recovering and he’s going to do every damn thing he can to make sure that he doesn’t touch drugs again, but addiction is part of who he is now. It’s changed him, it’s part of him - it’s not _all_ of him and it _doesn’t_ define him, but it  _has_ made him who he is today. He can't turn his back on that.

 

“I… I just…” Jess flounders, not really sure what to say - she doesn’t understand, and no matter Sam wants to share this, he can't do it with her.

 

“It’s okay,” so he reassures her. “I’m an addict, but that’s not all that I am. And I’ve made my peace with it.”

 

She sighs and from the corner of his eyes, he sees the way her fists clench inside her pockets. An awkward silence falls over them, Jess shifting her weight from one foot to the other, before she finally looks up.

 

“Well,” she says, “I-uh… I should be getting back.”

 

“Of course,” Sam says quickly, but Jess doesn’t leave, lingering hesitantly, watching him with a strange expression on her face.

 

“Sam, I-”

 

“I’ll walk you out,” he offers, jumping up. Across them, Eileen looks up, a fleeting expression of discomfort on her face before she schools it into a small smile when she catches his eyes.

 

 _You heading out?_ she asks and he nods, jerking his head towards Jess.

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow…?” he phrases it as a question, leaving it open-ended, because it doesn’t take a genius to see that she’s not comfortable around Jess and her friends and he doesn’t want to lose Eileen’s friendship. It’s still so new and tentative, but the idea of going back to sitting by himself at lunch or in class hurts.

 

The smile turns genuine and she nods, “Of course, Sam.” It’s the first time she’s speaking in front of Jess, and Sam can’t quite figure it out, but he knows there’s something significant in that.

 

So he smiles, offers her a quick fist-bump and a wink that she returns with a loud chuckle of her own. He sees Jess watching them interestedly from the corner of his eyes and he quickly grabs his books, stuffing them into his bag as he turns to her.

 

“You sure, Sam?” she asks. “You’re studying, I don’t wanna disturb-”

 

“It’s alright, don’t worry,” he reassures her. “Bye Eileen.”

 

She waves back, already absorbed with her problems again, and Sam grins one last time before throwing his backpack over his shoulder and walking out with Jess.

 

Once again, silence falls between them. It’s awkward, but not entirely uncomfortable, the air charged with all the things they have left unsaid between them. Jess is the first girl he’s ever liked, his first love of sorts, and that kind of thing bears weight, even if he’s no longer the same person.

 

“So…” Jess sighs, “How are you doing?”

 

He spares her a glance, shrugging lightly. “I’m good,” he answers stiffly, not quite sure what to say.

 

“You’re settling in well?” her voice is soft, unsure, “You’re not… well… you’re okay?”

 

“I’m not gonna get high again if that’s what you’re asking,” he snaps, suddenly bitter - because of _course_ , that’s what she wants to know. 

 

That’s the thing with Eileen; it’s not that she turns a blind eye to Sam’s addiction, but she doesn’t feel the need to push the issue. She accepts it as a part of him, accepts that it’s his demon to battle, but looks beyond it as well - Jess, the rest of the school, his teachers, even his family, sometimes, seem to either pretend it doesn’t exist or reduce his identity to that alone.

 

“That’s not what I meant, Sam,” Jess becomes defensive. “You haven’t exactly been in school for a while, I just wanted to know how you were doing.”

 

He sighs, bringing his hands up to massage the bridge of his nose - does this ever get easier?

 

“Sorry,” he mutters, “I just… it’s…” he trails off and Jess nods, patting his back hesitantly.

 

“I get it,” she says kindly.

 

 _No, you don't,_ he wants to tell her, because she doesn’t, not really. Jess is a kind person, warm and friendly, but she doesn’t quite understand the desperation that drove him to the brink, can’t comprehend the kind of panic that comes with seeing your elder brother give up everything for you because you went and fucked up everything. And he hopes she never does - no one should go through that.

 

So he doesn’t say anything, simply shooting her a tight smile, shrugging helplessly. She smiles back just as uncomfortably and they fall silent again, heading into the parking lot.

 

“Sam,” Jess says abruptly. “Look, I…” she hesitates.

 

Before she can say anything though, a loud cry interrupts them.

 

_“Saaaammm!!”_

 

They both turn towards the source of the call and all Sam sees is a flash of bright red before a small form collides with his legs, tiny arms wrapping themselves around his knees. He looks down, momentarily confused, before another rough voice echoes around them.

 

“Emma!”

 

Sam chuckles, dropping his hand to pat the kindergartner, even as Mr. Newman rushes to them, holding his elder daughter against his hip. Claire giggles, kicking her dad’s side gently and he sets her down, opening his mouth - to scold Emma, no doubt - when the redhead pulls away and looks up at him with wide green eyes.

 

“Claiwe told me,” she says, “You help her in class?”

 

He drops to his knees and pats her shoulders. “Yes,” he answers, “That’s what friends do, right?”

 

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Claire pause for a moment, small form going stiff. She ambles up to them, her hands hesitant as they sign.

 

_I’m your friend?_

 

Her eyes, blue and wide like her father, are glassy, and suddenly, Sam’s heart aches - god, how lonely are these kids if they have to _ask_ that? He remembers the feeling; of being that wierdo in school, of being ostracized enough that even a single friend can make such a big difference.

 

It’s what he’s going through right now.

 

So he simply smiles, tilts his head in acquiescence as he’s seen their father do, and then ruffles Claire’s long, golden hair.

 

“Well, obviously,” he says, eyes twinkling, “I don’t just let anyone sit at my desk, you know,” he peers down at her through his bangs, “Besides, we shared crayons. That definitely is a show of trust.”

 

Emma’s eyes go wide, “Crwayons?” she gasps.

 

Sam nods solemnly. “Indeed,” he says, “That makes us friends, right, Claire?”

 

She smiles and nods eagerly. _Yes,_ she signs, and he frowns at the following movement her hands make.

 

“Did you just call me Moose?” he asks. Behind him, he hears a snigger from Jess and he turns around to glare at her quickly.

 

“I apologize, Sam -” Mr. Newman begins, but Emma cuts in.

 

“I sawed a doc-docu...documenty?” she looks at her father for confirmation before continuing, “An’ you look like moose!” she finishes and Sam blinks, confused.

 

Mr. Newman sighs, rolling his eyes, “They watched a documentary over the weekend,” he offers, “And decided that you look like one. I apologize, it’s not-”

 

Sam feels a laugh bubble in his throat as he shakes his head. “No worries,” he grins, turning to the girls. “Hey Claire, Emma?” he whispers conspiratorially. “Can I tell you a secret?”

 

Identical wide-eyed expressions blink back at him and his grin widens. “I don't let anyone call me moose, even if my brother teases me about it.”

 

“But,” he continues, leaning forward to draw them both in a huddle, “the two of you can do it. You’ll be the _only_ ones in the whole town who can call me that, how does that sound?”

 

“Only us?” Emma asks, trying to keep her voice low but failing as kids usually do.

 

 _Really?_ Claire looks just as excited as her sister. Sam nods. _Really,_ he signs back.

 

Emma claps her hands and giggles, cheering loudly. “Yes!” she laughs. Jess chuckles behind them; Sam’s a bit surprised that she hasn’t done anything to introduce herself yet, but doesn’t say anything as Claire looks up at her suspiciously.

 

 _Who are you?_ she asks. Jess blinks, understanding that she’s being spoken to but not quite able to speak ASL. Sam pulls back, patting Claire’s shoulder. He wonders if she remembers Jess from her time in the classroom; if she does, it’s no doubt a bad memory, given how Jake was being an asshole at the time.

 

“This is my friend, Jess,” he says softly. “She’s in my class.”

 

“Nice t’meetcha!” Emma chirps. Claire, as he expected, is a bit more reticent, simply tilting her head in acknowledgement, even as Jess bends down to shake the redhead’s hand solemnly.

 

“You too... Emma?” she hesitates, looking at Mr. Newman, who offers her a nod.

 

“Emma,” he confirms. Abruptly, he bends down to pick up Claire, who goes willingly, leaning her head against her father’s shoulder. Sam gets up, wincing as his knees protest from kneeling for so long.

 

“That’s enough, girls,” the English teacher says. “We must get going now. Say goodnight to Sam and Jess, will you?” he turns back to the two of them, tilting his head to the side as he smiles tiredly.

 

“It’s getting late,” he says, “The two of you best be getting home as well.”

 

“G’night, Sam-Moose!” Emma chirps. Jess snorts, but Sam only grins back as Claire also signs her farewell.

 

_Goodnight, Sam._

 

 _Goodnight,_ he signs back, “Night, Em.”

 

Mr. Newman startles at that and Sam meets his probing gaze head-on. If his daughters can give him a nickname, he can give them one too, right? He’s not going to hurt them, he’s their friend.

 

But he doesn’t say anything, simply holding his hand out for Emma to take. The redhead lets go of Sam to latch herself to her dad’s side and with one last parting wave, the three of them disappear into the parking lot, Emma chattering away to glory.

 

“You’re good with kids,” Jess comments and Sam turns to her, shrugging.

 

“Not really,” he answers, “I just know what it’s like.”

 

Her brows furrow. “You mean…?” she trails off. “Claire… is that…?”

 

Sam doesn’t respond; for one, it isn’t his story to tell, and for another, he doubts Jess would understand at all. It’s not just Claire’s mutism that he understands - Emma’s loneliness as a younger sister, the stigma of being the co-dependent, weird siblings on the block… suffice to say, Sam knows a little bit of what the girls feel.

 

“Why are you here, Jess?” he asks her abruptly, because, honestly, he’s just tired now. “After everything…”

 

She stops, turning to face him, golden brows furrowed into an angry scowl. “I’m here  _because_ of it, Sam,” she says forcefully. “I won't lie and say it didn't hurt… you, Ruby… everything.” Trailing off, she steps closer and her hands hover over his face as she looks up at him.

 

Sam’s breath hitches; he would be lying if he said that he hasn’t dreamed of this. He knows that he deserves nothing from her - he _broke_ her heart. He chose Ruby and the drugs over the warmth and innocence that Jess offered, because he wanted to silence those voices in his head, wanted to just shut up Dad’s loud screams and yells, begging Bill to come back to life. But a part of him - the preteen who shyly crushed on the prettiest girl in his class - dreamt of her, even if he told himself repeatedly that it wasn’t going to happen.

 

“You-” he whispers, but she doesn’t give him time to finish, instead leaning up to press a soft, chaste kiss to his lips. He responds automatically, kissing back, but it’s over almost as soon as it starts, Jess pulling back, her pale cheeks sporting a pretty, pink flush.

 

“Will you go on a date with me, Sam Winchester?” she murmurs.

 

“Why?” he demands, “I broke your heart. I’m the town _junkie_ \- why would _you_ wanna go on a date with _me_?”

 

“Because we never got our chance,” she answers. “If there’s one thing I believe in, it’s that we don’t give up on people we love, especially not when things become difficult. I want to give this - _us_ -” she gestures between them, “a try. If you’re still interested…”

 

There is such a look of determined fierceness on her face, it makes his heart sink. Jess is good, kind - and she wants him. She’s right, of course she is; you don’t give up on the people you love simply because things get hard.

 

But Sam also knows - better than anyone - that sometimes, love just isn’t enough. Sometimes, you can try hard as anything, but it doesn’t work. He learned that the hard way.

 

“Sam?” she whispers and he looks down, still stiff and quiet. Her expression is hopeful and heartbroken at the same time and he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry - this… this is what he wants. And yet, he balks, because he knows - _knows_ \- Jess is wonderful, but he’s not the same guy she fell for all those years ago.

 

Still, he owes it to himself to try. He broke her heart once, he doesn’t want to do it again. And maybe… maybe, it’ll work a second time?

 

“Jess,” he sighs. “You’re sure about this?”

 

Her face lights up and she smiles, the corners of her lips curving prettily as she nods.

 

“One date,” she insists. “See how it goes.”

 

He leans down to cup her face with both hands and she leans into his touch. “You’re nuts,” he tells her, “But… alright.”

 

She giggles, pushing herself against him in a warm hug. He wraps his arms around her slim frame, holding her close and breathing in the fruity smell of her shampoo.

 

“Okay,” she whispers, “Okay.”

 

When they pull back, they’re both grinning like idiots. Sam offers a hand to her as they walk to the parking lot and she accepts it without question, twining her fingers with his. His stomach is doing somersaults and a part of him is terrified of this, but he squeezes her hand back. They hug once more just before she gets into her car.

 

“I’ll text you with the details?” she asks softly, “And we can set it up?”

 

He nods. They exchange numbers and Jess kisses his cheek, sliding behind the wheel of her secondhand Continental. He waves at the car as she takes off, grinning widely. God, he’s apprehensive as hell - how is this date even going to _go_?

 

But he’s excited too. Maybe things won’t be so bad, maybe he can have good things too. Maybe he doesn’t have to do penance for the rest of his life.

 

He’s walking back, heading to the bus stand to get a ride back home, when it happens - one minute, he’s whistling to himself and walking and the next, he’s surrounded by six of his classmates, all of them glaring at him.

 

“Winchester,” Jake snarls. Sam blinks, eyes narrowing at the dark-skinned boy, and he steps back, only to run into a solid figure behind him. He turns to see Max Miller glaring at him, a lips curved into an angry sneer.

 

“What do you guys want?” Sam snaps, “I’m just -”

 

“Stay away from Jess,” Brady snaps. “She doesn’t need a dead-weight like you bringing her down.”

 

And that shot - from a guy who Sam once called his best friend - hurts. Because, yes, he and Brady haven’t been friends in a long time, but he thought that he would at least not diss him, even if he isn’t openly friendly.

 

“Jess is her own person,” Sam retorts, “She can take care of herself.”

 

“She likes you, Winchester,” Jake growls. “We don't always know what’s bad for us, do we? She’s my friend, it’s my job to protect her from assholes like you.”

 

“You’re not her keeper,” Sam snaps back, “You can't - _oomph!_ ”

 

He doubles over in pain as Max punches him. Groaning, he holds his middle section, glaring up at them from the ground.

 

“Guys,” Andy speaks up from behind them. His voice is nervous and Sam gasps for breath as he twists to look at him. “Guys, we don't have to harm -” he begins, but Brady cuts him off.

 

“We don't teach Winchester a lesson now,” he sneers, “Then he’s never gonna learn.”

 

“Yeah, because violence always solved _so_ many problems,” Sam grunts. “You’re- _fuck!_ ”

 

It’s Scott this time, kicking at Sam until he’s on the ground, coughing and sputtering from the pain. He throws up his hands to defend himself, but he’s tired and weak from not having had anything to eat, and there are five of them throwing themselves at him. Andy stands by and watches, frozen in fear, as Sam whimpers, clutching at his mid-section and curling into a protective ball against the blows raining down on him.

 

“You goddamned  _junkie_ ,” Jake snaps as he throws a well-aimed kick at Sam’s back. “You can't-”

 

“Car!” Andy yells. The five boys come to an abrupt stop, looking up furtively to see a small family car pulling into the parking lot. The headlights flash and instantly, Sam is dropped like a hot potato. He groans, the bruises swelling already, and rolls into a ball, shivering.

 

“This isn’t over, Winchester,” Brady warns, “You stay away from Jess or else.”

 

Before Sam can respond, Andy pulls them away from him and they all run towards the other side of the parking lot. He lies there, shaking perilously, ignoring the way his eyes are stinging from the pain and the humiliation, spitting out a mouthful of blood on the floor next to him.

 

 _Figures,_ he thinks. Because he can’t - _shouldn't -_ forget, even for a second, how badly he’s messed up. Because he _is_ an addict, he’s a _junkie_ , and Jess is a _good_ , popular girl who doesn’t deserve this shit - he broke her heart.

 

Distantly, he hears a shout, and a rough voice yells his name, but he ignores it in favor of closing his eyes against the sudden throbbing in his head. His muscles are all screaming and he feels a numb weight in his stomach that hurts and _fuck_ , Dean’s gonna freak, isn’t he?

 

God, why is he always such a burden on his big brother? Why can't he fucking take care of himself for once?

 

Why does he always fuck things up for Dean?

 

 _He won't go to the ER,_ he decides, it doesn’t matter how badly he’s hurt. He’s just going to pretend that he’s fucking fine, because hell, he knows they don't have the money to go to the doctor, especially since their insurance is shot to hell. And he won't - _won't_ \- ruin Dean’s life further.

 

“Sam!” comes thew call again; he looks up blearily into worried blue eyes that look so, so familiar. “Sam? Sam!”

 

The last thing he remembers is big, warm hands - so like his big brother’s - patting his face and a rough, low voice calling his name again and again.

 

*-*-*

 

Castiel grunts as he hoists an unconscious Sam Winchester over his back, glad for the years he spent training with his brothers. For once, his background is helpful - even if the boy does not weigh as much as he should (an effect of the drugs and the stress, no doubt), he is tall and hefty, which means he’s half-carrying, half-dragging the boy inside the school building.

 

The hallways have cleared by now, so many hours after the final bell. The sun set hours ago, this close to winter, and the school seems devoid of life without the chitter-chatter of students to populate it. Huffing, Castiel pulls Sam into the nurse’s office in the school, glad that Ms. Donna’s watching his girls at the nearby kindergarten till he gets back. He pushes the door open - Ms. Barnes seems to have left already, but it isn’t locked. Panting, he carefully sets Sam on the bed, hoping he hasn’t aggravated the teenager’s injuries.

 

Straightening up, he pulls out his phone, pausing as he stares at the screen, wondering what the hell he is doing.

 

Sam was bullied - _bullied_. Castiel isn’t stupid; if there’s one thing he knows, it’s what injuries caused by human hands look like. He was walking into the school to collect his work when he heard it - the soft mewl of pain that had led him to the younger Winchester curled up on the ground.

 

He saw the young man barely half an hour ago - how the hell did this happen? Those are defensive wounds on his arms and his position was a classic one of protection, curled into a ball, holding his stomach.

 

Within the short time that Castiel and his girls left, Sam was bullied. There’s no other explanation.

 

As a teacher, it’s his responsibility to take Sam to the ER, get him checked out and then inform both parent and principal so that his student is safe. And yet, Castiel hesitates - bullying is a tricky thing to navigate, if only because he doesn’t want to get Sam into further trouble.

 

He doesn’t want to get _Dean_ into more trouble.

 

Castiel doesn’t know what their situation is, except that it is bad enough that Dean prostitutes himself. Do they have the insurance required to fix Sam’s injuries? And Dean’s guardianship… will it be affected if this becomes public knowledge? CPS must already be watching him - the man took charge of his brother as soon as he became a legal adult, surely there was some doubt that he would be able to care for him properly?

 

He doesn’t know - he doesn’t want to risk it.

 

But he has a responsibility to Sam. The boy is a child, a hurt one at that, and Castiel can't just walk away, can't just turn his back because it’s convenient. _He will report this to Principal Tran,_ he decides - it’s the least he can do to ensure no one else is hurt this way.

 

With a tired sigh, he shoots Donna a quick text to let her know that he’s going to be late because of an emergency, requesting that he take the girls back to her place. She answers immediately in the affirmative, refusing his offer of payment and he smiles wanly before dialing Dean’s number.

 

 _Mr. Winchester,_ he muses, as the phone rings, _is not going to be pleased._

 

He resolutely ignores the way his heart races at the gruff greeting on the other end of the phone. This is no time for his little crush to show itself; Sam is _hurt_ \- he’s only doing his duty as the boy’s teacher.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Dean, it’s Cast-Casper Newman,” Castiel corrects himself instantly, cursing his slip-up. He refuses to admit that he wants to know what his name - his _real_ name - would sound like, coming from Dean.

 

“What is it?” Dean’s voice takes a panicked tone instantly. “I told you man, I’ll find Sam a tutor, I need time-”

 

“It isn’t that, Mr. Winchester,” Castiel cuts in. “I just found Sam in the parking lot, beaten up. Please come to the school right away.”

 

“You _what_?” Dean hisses. “Fuck, is he alright? What the fuck happened?”

 

“I’m afraid I don't know,” Castiel confesses, “I was on my way to my office to pick something up when I saw him lying there. I’ve brought him in to the nurse’s, please come right away.”

 

“I’ll be there in ten,” Dean says instantly. “Pam can take care of him.”

 

“Ms. Barnes has already gone home, I’m afraid,” he answers, turning to where the younger Winchester is laid up on the bed. “But I have basic medical training, I can keep an eye on him. He doesn’t seem to be too badly hurt.”

 

“Motherfucker,” Dean swears. Distantly, Castiel hears the sound of motors and engines - that’s right, he’s a mechanic, isn’t he? His mind conjures up the image of grease-smeared skin, and he growls to himself, frustrated at his attraction. The man is panicking about his brother and _this_ is what he responds with?

 

As if on cue, Dean clears his throat. “Mr.-uh, Newman,” he says, his voice soft, “Look… whatever it is… after that night-”

 

“That has no bearing on my responsibility to Sam,” he interrupts, “I’m a teacher, Mr. Winchester, I’d be doing this no matter who it is.”

 

“You tellin’ me you wouldn't have taken ‘em to the ER first?” Dean shoots back. Castiel falls silent instantly; anyone else, and yes, he would have taken them to the ER first to get them checked out and then contacted the parents and the necessary authorities.

 

“I can't-” he begins.

 

“I don't care,” Dean snaps, “I geddit. I’m a poor son of a bitch who has to whore himself out to pay the bills. You’re right, I don't think we could afford a hospital bill right now.”

 

He sighs, and in that little sound, Castiel can hear the weariness, the bone-tired exhaustion that he knows so well. And suddenly, he aches - how humiliated is Dean feeling right now? How much does it hurt that his child’s high school teacher knows his deepest secrets?

 

Contrary to popular belief, Castiel _does_ know how to read people - he just prefers to do it quietly. So he doesn’t rise to Dean’s bait, doesn’t respond, instead remaining silent.

 

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, “Sorry, it ain’t your fault, I’m just… is Sam okay?”

 

“He’s got a couple of defensive wounds and I think he may have been punched in the gut, but I do not think he’s badly hurt,” Castiel soothes him. “I can administer what first-aid is required here.”

 

“Good,” he whispers, “That’s… good. Uh, thanks, man. I owe you.”

 

“As I said, Mr. Winchester,” Castiel answers, “It’s my responsibility.”

 

“I’ll be there in ten,” Dean says. Before he can answer, the man hangs up, and Castiel sighs, massaging the bridge of his nose in frustration.

 

Well, that went well.

 

*-*-*

 

Who the fuck came to get drunk on a Thursday night?

 

 _Idiot rich boys, that’s who,_ Jo muses bitterly as she glares the group of rowdy youngsters, dominating The Roadhouse. They’ve been here since 7, ordering the greasy bar food first and then drinks and have now escalated to grinding obscenely on the dance floor. To be fair, it’s still quite early for a bar (barely 10 p.m., in fact), but Jo’s tired and all she really wants to do is crash.

 

She’s got a presentation at her community college class tomorrow, which she still needs to prep for, and then, she and Bobby are going to march over to the Winchester house and demand that the two morons have dinner with them on pain of death. Sam’s been home for so many weeks now, but still, the boys haven’t even texted, much less called or visited. They’ve also got plans to interrogate them about Gordon (and wasn’t _that_ a fun visit from Jody) and then whack Dean’s head for not asking for help when he was getting beaten up behind her bar.

 

So, no, Jo’s tired and pissed and so not in the mood to deal with these assholes who think it’s their God-given right to grope any waitress that walks past them in a mini-skirt.

 

“Hi, sweetheart,” the big, burly beefcake whistles as she bends over the counter, her top riding low. “Wanna come in and join the party?”

 

“No, thanks,” she snorts back. “I’m busy.”

 

“Ah,” his friend snickers, “Don't be like that, baby!” He lifts his drink and slurps from it loudly, eyeing her lecherously. “Don't be a buzzkill, come and join us.”

 

“I’m not interested, dickhead,” she snaps, rolling her eyes and straightening up. “Will you leave me-aaahh!”

 

The washcloth sails out of her hands and flutters to the  floor as he grabs her arm, yanking her hard towards himself. Up close, his breath stinks of alcohol, eyes bloodshot and she struggles, trying to pull her arm back and glaring up at him.

 

“Let me go,” she snarls, “My mom has a shotgun right there in the back room and the Sheriff’s a friend -”

 

“No need to be such a frigid bitch,” he chuckles, patting her cheek, “Come on, have some fun!”

 

He turns around to his friends, who are sniggering. The beefcake from earlier smirks, eyeing her predatorily and Jo winces, twisting her arm in a vain attempt to get free.

 

“Why don't we get her something to drink to help her loosen up, boys?” he asks and they all cheer.

 

“What part of _no_ don’t you understand, you peabrain?” Jo yells, yanking her arm. The guy yelps as she stomps on his foot and she ducks when he snarls and grabs at her again, sidestepping him neatly.

 

“You little bitch,” beefcake growls and then pounces. Jo dodges him and twists her head around to yell for help.

 

“Yo Ash!” she screams, “Little help here?”

 

Beefcake and Stinky Breath converge in, the rest of their friends behind them, and for a moment, Jo feels a very real panic threatening to choke her throat. She knows how to defend herself, knows how to fight, but she’s small and even she can’t take four guys at once.

 

Fortunately, it turns out that she doesn’t have to - just as beefcake grabs her arm, a loud _bang_ goes off behind her. The assholes, for all their machismo, drop her arm like a hot potato, whirling around with terrified looks on their faces.

 

Jo turns, relief pumping through her veins, the angry retribution dying on her lips when she sees who’s holding the gun, because that sure as hell isn’t Ash.

 

Fuck, she is _beautiful._

 

The long red hair whips across the air as two soft, hazel eyes peer out from an elfin-shaped face. In her hand, she’s holding a small revolver, finger on the trigger ready to squeeze, as she glares at the men harassing Jo. She’s on the smaller side, but somehow, that just makes her seem even more threatening, and suddenly, all Jo wants to do is fall to her knees and let her whip that gun all over her own body.

 

Oh hell, she needs to get laid - it’s been way too long if she’s fantasizing about this redheaded Valkyrie whom she’s never even met before.

 

“I believe the lady said to let her go,” she says calmly, walking forward. Her eyes meet Jo’s and in them, she sees a spark of interest before a blank expression schools  her face again.

 

Beefcake growls from behind Jo and takes a step forward; the redhead’s eyes move from Jo to him, a crimson eyebrow climbing up her forehead.

 

“Who do you think you, bit-” he starts.

 

The redhead simply rolls her eyes and sighs. “Seriously?” she grumbles, “Why are all evil monologues always the same?”

 

Jo blinks - _what?_

 

“Y’know,” Stinky Breath rasps, “If you’re jealous, just join us-”

 

“Oh my god,” she snorts, “Yeah, no, Casanova. One, wrong equipment. Two, _hell_ no. So why don't you and your tiny dicks just run along and leave the lady alone?”

 

“Did you just-?” Beefcake yowls and jumps forward, only to jump straight back as the redhead levels her gun straight at him, the humor vanishing entirely from her face, leaving a stone-cold, angry expression in its wake.

 

“Here’s what's going to happen,” she says softly. Jo feels a thrill run through her spine, a tingle of arousal and attraction running through her; what would this girl sound like, whispering into her ear?

 

Okay, she really needs to find herself a lay for tonight.

 

“I’m the one with the gun,” she continues, “So you're all going to be good boys and listen to what I have to say. Got that?”

 

She points the gun straight at them and Stinky Breath swallows, taking a step back.

 

“You can’t-” Beefcake snarls, but one of the other guys pull him back  with a loud hiss.

 

“Just let it go!” he mutters, “Let’s get outta here.”

 

A moment later, they run off, scampering out of the bar, throwing angry looks behind them, leaving Jo alone with the redhead. She sighs, rubbing her eyes tiredly and then turns to her savior, who has tucked her gun away and is watching her curiously.

 

“Do you have a permit for that?” she blurts out and then mentally winces; _seriously?_ The hottest girl she’s seen in like… forever, and _that’s_ the first thing out of her mouth?

 

The redhead giggles, small shoulders moving up and down in a quick shrug. “Don't need one,” she answers and Jo frowns.

 

“What?” she barks.

 

The other woman simply chuckles again, pulling her gun out and holding it up for Jo to see. She frowns - there’s something weird about that thing…

 

“It’s… it’s a _fake?_ ” she blinks;  she’s got enough experience with guns to know what a real gun looks like and this isn’t it. The sides are chipped and up close, she can see the cheap plastic that it’s made out of.

 

“You scared ‘em off with a _fake?_ ” her eyes widen and the redhead shoots her a grin. “But… I heard you!”

 

With her other hand, she pulls up a phone and presses a button, and suddenly, the same bang echoes around the now-empty bar. Jo whistles; now that she isn’t surrounded by drunk assholes, she can hear just how doctored the sound is. And of course, those idiots probably hadn’t heard a gunshot outside of Call of Duty, so they wouldn't be able to tell.

 

“Prop gun,” the redhead grins. “And sound effects. There are some advantages to be a techie and a LARPer.”

 

“Larp-er?” Jo blinks again.

 

“Live action role playing,” she answers, looking around. “I know it’s late and it looks like I’m your only customer, but…” she eyes Jo up and down, a small smirk twisting the corner of her lips. “Mind getting a girl a drink?”

 

There’s a suggestive lilt to her tone, but she’s standing a respectful distance away and Jo isn’t sure if she’s flirting or not. To hell with it… this girl defended her honor with a _prop_ gun. The least she can do is get her a drink.

 

“Have a seat,” she nods towards the booths and the redhead grins, following her as she moves back to her usual station.

 

“So…” she drawls, flirting back. “Role play, do you?” she smirks back, meeting widening hazel eyes with a raised eyebrow of her own.

 

“Gin and tonic,” the redhead gestures towards the drinks, “And yes. Yes, I do. Why?” she looks up, tossing a strand of her hair back, “Would you like to join me?”

 

Nope, she’s definitely not imagining it. The girl’s flirting back, leaning forward and unabashedly staring at Jo - she’s interested. But she's not going to push, she's going to let Jo set the parameters and will back off if she says no.

 

“Depends,” Jo shrugs, “What role would you be playing?”

 

The girl laughs out loud, dropping her bag to the side and relaxing on the seat. “I like you, Blondie,” she says, “Grab a glass and join me, wouldja?”

 

“Are you asking me on a date, _Red_?” Jo counters.

 

“Would you say yes if I was?”

 

It’s Jo’s turn to laugh and she throws her head back and giggles widely. “ _Hell_ yes,” she replies.

 

“Good,” she grins, “I’m Charlie.”

 

Jo pours out a glass of the requested gin and tonic and then pours herself her usual whiskey. She’s only nineteen, but it’s not like she hasn’t gotten drunk before (she works in a bloody bar, for heaven’s sake), and she needs the liquid courage if she’s going to bed with this girl tonight.

 

“I’m Jo,” she tells her, sliding the glass over. Charlie raises the glass and bumps it with her own and Jo grins, waggling her eyebrows excitedly just to watch the redhead chuckle again.

 

“To prop guns,” she toasts, tossing the drink back like it’s water and Jo grins.

 

“And role playing,” she adds, downing her whiskey.

 

Fuck her presentation prep - she needs some tension relief anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER THOUGHTS/ANNOUNCEMENTS - 
> 
> So we're getting to be where I want with the family feels! Also... CHARLIE/JO!!! The plot is picking up now; I've finished about one-third of my planned outline so far, so we're moving! I do apologize for missing my deadline (both Sunday and Monday), but my building came down with a rat-infestation suddenly and I had to temporarily move out. Add to that community theatre (which I love, but is currently an extra on my already stacked plate) and I kinda just lost it for a while there.
> 
> As for the announcement - THIS STORY IS COMING TO AN END SOON! Okay, lemme rephrase that; THIS IS TURNING INTO A SERIES!!! We've hit 100k already and as much as I love long-fics, even I balk at something that goes above 150k, and I'm only about a third into all that I have planned. So this is going to be a series; I foresee about two more installments in this series, anywhere between 50-100k each. I'm planning to end this in a few more chapters, hit 150k and stop there. I'll take a break after this is finished to focus on my DCBB, SPN Megabang (posting July, fun story with NOTHING but fluff and family feels that I've been working on for almost two years now), my DeanCasTropefest and the Destiel Harlequin Challenge. But this is my baby, and I WILL be back soon. 
> 
> So hope y'all enjoyed that and I'll see ya soon with the next chapter!


	15. Name Me Moose and I Shall Be Your Squirrel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel and Dean share a private moment after a deal is struck; meanwhile, the Winchester brothers receive some very special names. Mild angst, mostly self-indulgent fluff and family feels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! And with this, I hope I can get back to my regular every alternate Sunday updates. Thanks for sticking on and not giving up on me, I love you all so much!
> 
> As always, thanks to my beta, Baya-the-dragon, and my two cheerleaders, Ru-Dog and Aej. I don't think I could get anything done without them on my side - love you, losers!
> 
> This chapter is shameless self-indulgence on my part after the latest episode; I had something else planned and my brain went somewhere else, as usual. Hope you enjoy all the fluff! Also, quick note - all my notes on the American schooling system as well ASL come entirely from Google, so if I've made mistakes, please let me know and I'll correct 'em!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS - Bullying, recollections of violence, prostitution and drugs, talk of rehab and overdose, talk of selective mutism, low self-esteem

**Chapter 14 - Name Me Moose and I Shall Be Your Squirrel**

 

God, the light is bright.

 

Sam groans as he comes to, clenching his eyes shut and holding his hands to his forehead in an attempt to block it out. Suddenly, his entire side is burning, something hot zinging through down his torso and he yelps, throwing his head back.

 

What the hell happened? The last thing he remembers is -

 

_Son of a bitch._

 

Jess - asking him out on a date so shyly… _Jake and Brady_ \- the parking lot and getting thrown around by those assholes before he was literally kicked to the ground and stomped on.

 

Rough hands and a warm voice calling his name, familiar blue eyes staring at him in concern before -

 

Shit.

 

Shit, shit _, shit -_

 

Mr. Newman saw him - he _saw_ him get beaten up and bullied.

 

Fuck.

  
  
That means that he’d have, at the very least, told the principal and Dean; that’s protocol for a teacher. And that must mean that Sam is in the ER.

 

_Fuck._

 

They don't have the insurance or the money; Sam, better than anyone, knows just how much hospitals cost in Sioux Falls. He knows that Dean blew his college fund on rehab, they can't afford it, not now, not when -

 

The teenager shoots up in bed, groaning loudly when his torso and side burn, aching painfully from the bruises. He’s sure he’s black and blue all over, assuming he hasn’t broken or torn anything, and he holds his side, trying to breathe through his nose as his chest tightens from the pain.

 

“I see you’re awake,” Mr. Newman’s voice sounds relieved and Sam whips his head around to see his English teacher leaning against the desk in the corner, watching him carefully.

 

Wait, desk?

 

Sitting back, Sam lets his muscles go loose and pliant, leaning against the headboard. Realization sinks in slowly - he’s not in the ER, he’s in Pam’s office at the school. He recognizes the room now, the white walls and the punk-rock posters, which no one would believe belongs to a nurse, but that’s how Pam is.

 

“Mr. Newman,” he hisses through gritted teeth, pressing his hands to his side.

 

It’s only then that he realizes - his shirt is missing and he has a bandage wrapped around his side, tight and snug but with enough room for him to breathe. It looks like professional work, but Pam doesn’t seem to be around, which means that…

 

_Mr. Newman_ did it?

 

What the heck?

 

Feeling dizzy and disoriented, he sighs, leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes. Across him, Mr. Newman sets down the phone he was tinkering with and turns to Sam, clearing his throat before he speaks.

 

“Hello, Sam,” he says. Sam snorts; the man is the dorkiest teacher he’s ever had - who says _hello_ to a student they saved, who’s clearly been beaten up, who’s a _junkie_?

 

“Hello, Mr. Newman,” he feels the corner of his lips curling up, “What happened?”

 

“You tell me.”

 

Sam flinches at the utterly calm tone Mr. Newman takes. He doesn’t sound angry or judgmental or even worried - he’s simply asking, as though they’re talking about the damned weather or something.

 

“You, uh-” Sam fusses with the bandage on his side, “You patched me up?”

 

His English teacher nods, "I did," he answers. His expression is calm, but there's a knowing glint in his eyes that makes Sam uncomfortable. "How do you feel?"

 

"I'm good, thanks," he answers hastily. "I should be heading back, my brother - ow!" he winces and falls back on to the bed, sharp pain burning through his side.

 

"Careful, Sam!" Mr. Newman rushes forward to help him sit up straight. "You don't seem to have damaged anything serious, but you are quite badly bruised. You need to rest, even if it is only flesh wounds."

 

Sam's brow furrow in confusion, "Flesh wounds?" he asks.

 

"Indeed," the man levels him with a serious look. "Flesh wounds, defensive in nature, which you seemed to have acquired in the thirty minutes between my departure and return."

 

He falls silent at that, doesn't say anything beyond - there's a question hidden there, but Mr. Newman doesn't push, lets the silence echo around them.

 

Sam opens his mouth to respond, and then closes it again, eyes burning - because what the fuck _can_ he say? How can defend anything? _He’s_ the junkie, Jess’s friends were only trying to protect her, weren’t they?

 

He _wants_ to tell him, wants to tell him that he was fucking bullied - but what good was that gonna do? Newman would take it to Principal Tran. It'd spread around school, and then he'd have to deal with more anger from the same guys who hurt him now for being a tattletale, not to mention the way CPS would descend on Dean for not looking after him properly.

 

There's no way in _hell_ he's gonna hurt his brother more.

 

So he purses his lips, raises his eyebrows and turns the question back on his teacher instead.

 

"Defensive wounds?" he asks, "How do _you_ know?"

 

It _is_ strange; Mr. Newman moves with the kind of fluidity and grace that suggests some kind of martial arts training.

 

As though on cue, the dark-haired teacher flushes, turning away, pursing his own lips in acquiescence. He doesn't offer Sam an answer and the silence between them becomes louder and louder.

 

"I should be getting home," Sam finally breaks it, unable to stand the discomfort. Mr. Newman turns back around and opens his mouth to respond, when the sound of footsteps pounding echo loudly through the silence of the empty hallways.

 

"Who's that?" Sam demands. The door swings open in answer to his question, and Dean's panting in the doorway, golden brows furrowed with worry.

 

_"Sammy!"_

 

Fuck.

 

Mr. Newman must have called his brother after all. There goes his chances of hiding this from Dean - it's not that Sam enjoys lying to him, but his big brother will freak the fuck out for something as small as this.

 

Sam wants to not cause his brother any more difficulty; that's why he stopped speaking in the first place - his voice _hurts,_  maims. Why would he use it then?

 

Holding back the curse biting at his tongue, he swallows hard and turns to his brother with a pained smile.

 

"Hi Dean," he says, voice small and quiet.

 

"Sam!" Dean marches in and grabs him in a warm hug, thick  arms banding about Sam's bony shoulders carefully and pulling him in close. Sam lets himself rest against his brother's strong chest for the space of one heartbeat, and then two, and then a third, before he pushes him back slightly to look up at him.

 

"You alright?" Dean demands, patting his shoulders and his cheeks, checking him down.

 

And that little action makes Sam's eyes sting - goddamn, has there been anyone else in the world who's cared about him even half as much as his brother? He's fucking lucky; Dad's an asshole and Mom's gone, but Dean... Dean's _still_ here.

 

Ruby… Ruby didn't have anyone, still doesn’t. Her pathetic excuse of a father was the reason she fell into drugs - unlike him, she doesn’t have a single person in her corner.

 

It was why he became friends with her in the first place.

 

He holds back a sniffle and offers his brother a wan smile. "I'm fine, Dean," he answers.

 

"What the hell happened?" Dean snaps. "Newman called me to tell me you're hurt, what the _fuck_ , Sam-"

 

"I've administered basic first-aid, Mr. Winchester," Newman cuts in on cue and both brothers turn to where he's standing and watching them, a strange expression on his face. If Sam didn't know any better, he'd almost say that it was jealousy - but the look vanishes before he can identify it.

 

"What happened?" Dean repeats. "Sam, who the fuck hurt you?"

 

"It," Sam hesitates and then shakes his head, "It doesn't matter."

 

Dean glares at him, "The fuck it doesn't," he hisses angrily. "Sam, I ain't stupid. If someone is bullying you-"

 

"Dean!" the younger Winchester growls, "I told you. It doesn't matter. Let it go, man."

 

"Sam," Mr. Newman begins, "if you're being bullied at school, we must report it to Principal Tran at the very least. She can-"

 

"She can do jackshit," Sam interrupts. "All due respect, Mr. Newman, it's _my_ decision. And it's not a big deal, I can handle it."

 

"Sam," Dean barks, "You nuts? Report those assholes-"

 

"I said _no_!" Sam yells, "It's my decision, Dean, I don't need you to fight my battles for me."

 

Dean falls quiet, an expression of calm detachment falling over his face. Too late, Sam realizes what he's just said - fuck, Dean probably thinks he doesn't need him, doesn't he?

 

Son of a _bitch_.

 

That isn't it at all - Sam needs his brother, he'll _always_ need him. But Sam also wants to help him; he wants to, for once in his fucking life, not be a burden on him, because Dean's given up too goddamned king much already.

 

Why does he always screw shit up for his brother?

 

Sighing, he reaches out to grasp Dean's shoulder, squeezing it lightly.

 

"Dean, I'm sorry," he murmurs, "I'll handle it. Please."

 

For a long moment, there's nothing but silence as Dean purses his lips, considering it. Sam meets his gaze head on - Dean has to let him go eventually, not because Sam wants to get away, but because his big brother deserves a happy life of his own, deserves things for himself that aren't connected to Sam.

 

"Alright, fine," he says reluctantly, each word sounding as though he's pulling teeth, "But somethin' happens, you come to me, ya hear me, Sam?"

 

Sam nods, "Of course," he agrees, knowing full well that he's lying. He's not going to be another thing for Dean to worry about.

 

"I'm afraid I must insist on reporting this, Sam," Mr. Newman intervenes, "It's my duty as your teacher. Mrs. Tran needs to be aware if only to prevent any other victims from getting bullied."

 

"Do you truly believe that they'll stop bullying kids if you report them, Mr. Newman?" Sam asks quietly. "I appreciate your help but I can handle this on my own."

 

"Sam, I must insist that I tell the principal," he begins.

 

"Of course," Sam mutters, "but to whether I name them or not is up to _me_ , isn't it?"

 

The English teacher looks frustrated. "Sam," he sighs, "What guarantee do you have that they shall not accost you in the hallways after school?"

 

"I can take care of myself," Sam answers sharply, "They caught me off guard today. I'm not a helpless kid, Mr. Newman."

 

"No, that you aren't," there's a strange, almost sad smile on Newman's face as he turns to Dean. The expression disappears into something else, something darker and softer at the same time and Sam blinks, pressing his hand to his temple.

 

Goddamn it, he's imagining things.

 

"Mr. Winchester, you can't be-" he protests and Dean sighs.

 

"Kid's stubborn as fuck, dude," he shrugs. There's a note of pride in his voice and Sam straightens up at it - no matter how badly he behaves, Dean's always in his corner.

 

It's the thing that keeps him going - other kids have Moms and Dads to do what Dean does for him and it's screwed up as shit, but Sam is _so_ grateful for his brother. Ruby didn't and Sam fell into that hole with her; he can't do it any longer.

 

He has to try to be the brother Dean deserves.

 

"Then I must insist that you allow me to tutor you after school," Mr. Newman looks almost triumphant at that proclamation and Sam blinks again - what the hell? "That way, he won't be caught alone in the hallways after dark."

 

Dean's expression on the other hand, quickly morphs into one of irritated disgust that Sam's seen all too many times.

 

"Dude, I told you before," he says stiffly, "We don't need your charity. I can take care of my brother just fine - I'll find him a tutor."

 

Sam looks between them, things clicking into place. "You discussed this?" he asks.

 

"I informed your brother that you'd need tutoring in order to get through your midterms," Mr. Newman answers tersely, sparing him a quick glance. "I offered, your brother refused."

 

Dean snorts. "That's one way of putting it," he mutters under his breath and Sam frowns.

 

There's something else here, something neither Dean nor his teacher are saying - Sam knows his brother, knows when he's hiding something. He wouldn’t just randomly turn down an offer that could help _Sam_ and Sam’s self-aware enough to know that. Before he can open his mouth to ask, Mr. Newman interrupts.

 

"Mr. Winchester," he says gravely. "This is not me being charitable. I have a proposition for you - a quid pro quo, if you will."

 

Dean freezes. "You've gotta be fucking _kidding_ me," he spits out. "If _you_ think I'mma wh-" he stops, casting a quick look at Sam before heaving himself back to Newman and glaring at him spitefully.

 

Well, there's that suspicion confirmed. There _is_ something else between his brother and his English teacher that Sam isn't privy to - oh _fuck._

 

Dean isn't like... _sleeping_ with him, is he? _No..._ Sam swallows, _no, they've known Newman for barely a month or two, so..._

 

"Oh _no_ ," Newman sounds scandalized, expression turning apologetic. "I'm sorry, what I meant was that Sam help me in return for me tutoring him. I'm looking for a babysitter."

 

Dean looks relieved at that, though he frowns and asks, "Still haven't found one since you fired Becky?"

 

Wait, Becky _Rosen_? Okay, seriously, what the heck was going on here?

 

"No," Mr. Newman answers, "I'm afraid things have been... difficult... since Halloween."

 

Oh right, Dean and Mr. Newman met on Halloween, when his brother saved Claire. That's when he must've met Becky too, when Mr. Newman fired the girl. Sam winces at the memory of her - damn, but she was one obsessed chick.

 

"So what do you say, Mr. Winchester?" Newman's voice pulls him out of his thoughts and Sam turns to see Dean chewing on his lower lip in consideration.

 

"I can tutor Sam in exchange for babysitting," he says, "that is," he turns to the teenager, "if that's alright with you, Sam. It'd be a great help to me, especially since you can use sign language - Claire really needs someone who knows how to communicate that way."

 

"And," he turns to Dean, "this way, he can stay back after school with me and I can ensure that he remains safe."

 

"Sam?" Dean asks, "Your call."

 

Sam looks at Mr. Newman, brows furrowing. It sounds like a damn good idea, which is why he's hesitant; he can't deny the fact that he really likes those two girls and Mr. Newman too - they're a bit weird and dorky, but they're a family in a way that Sam's only ever felt when he's with Jo, Ellen or Bobby. But this offer sounds too good to be true; he'd get to study with his teacher, spend time with adorable kids and not get bullied?

 

When did life get so good for Winchesters?

 

"Sam?"

 

There's a strand of desperation in Mr. Newman's voice that has Sam turning to him. Worried blue eyes stare back at him, and he's reminded of similar eyes on a smaller, sweeter face, all golden and trusting and affectionate. And just like that, his mind is made up.

 

"That sounds great, Mr. Newman," he hears himself saying. Dean grunts, turning to the teacher.

 

"You got yourself a deal, man," there's another undercurrent of something unidentifiable in his voice and Sam sighs.

 

"We should get home," Sam announces, slowly getting to his feet. He lets out as soft breath, hissing lightly - Newman was right, he isn't hurt bad, but he aches all over, his entire body sore and bruised.

 

Dean rushes over to help him up and he waves his brother off.

 

"When would you like me to start, Mr. Newman?" he asks.

 

Newman tilts his head slightly. "Why don't you stay back after class tomorrow, Sam, and we'll discuss it? I'd like to speak to Claire and Emma first, let them know that you'd be their new sitter."

 

"Yeah," Dean grunts, "Kiddos' opinions are important." There's a fierceness to his tone that makes his heart ache - Dean lost so much of his own childhood to give Sam his... no wonder he gets so manically protective of kids.

 

"Indeed," Mr. Newman smiles. "I doubt they'd have a problem with someone they've nicknamed Moose, but I'd still like to confirm it with them."

 

"Moose?" Dean smirks as he turns to Sam, who flushes and elbows his brother's side.

 

"Shut up," he grumbles as Dean leans in to ruffle his hair.

 

"Antlers gonna come in soon, Sammy," he chortles and Sam rolls his eyes.

 

"I'm goin' home," he snatches his hands away from his brother and grabs his bag. "See you tomorrow, Mr. Newman, tell the girls hi for me."

 

"I will, goodbye Sam," his teacher responds. "Goodbye, Mr. Winchester."

 

Is Sam imagining it or is there a lingering something when he addresses Dean?

 

"Yeah, man," Dean mumbles, shuffling from one foot to another. "See ya. And..." he hesitates, looking at Sam quickly before turning back to him. "Thanks."

 

Fuck, he _wasn't_ imagining it. _There is something there,_ Sam groans mentally.

 

Goddamn his brother and his sex life.

 

*-*-*

 

Castiel sighs as the final bell rings, indicating that it's the end of the day. He'd be lying if he said that he isn't nervous about his proposition to the Winchester brothers - good Lord, what was he _thinking_?

 

It isn't like he blurted it out in the heat of the moment; he actually was considering proposing an exchange of services with Sam. Watching Emma and Claire in the parking lot with him was what cemented the idea brewing at the back of his head for a while now - the girls really like the younger Winchester and he knows sign language. But he'd wanted to work it out further than just _‘will you be my babysitter’_?

 

So yes, he has been considering it for a while. He just wishes he'd been more graceful in proposing the idea to Dean.

 

God, he doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget the look of abject horror and disgust on the younger man's face when he heard what Castiel had to say.

 

_A quid pro quo?_ he hears himself say again and he bites his lip to hold back the curse.

 

He _knows_ Dean's secret - knows that for _him_ , quid pro quo means something a whole lot different than what other people would think of. What on earth possessed him to use that phrase?

 

_He's bound to make a fool of himself in front of Dean,_ he snorts to himself. The man is beautiful, but it's not just that which makes him tongue-tied - there's a resilience and a warmth to his soul that makes Castiel melt everytime he sees him.

 

The knock on his door distracts him from his stupid, fanciful thoughts and he looks up to see Sam Winchester standing there awkwardly, a small smile on his face.

 

"Come on in, Sam," he invites. The teenager nods, walking in, waving to someone outside.

 

_Be back soon_ , he signs, and Castiel realizes that it's probably Eileen out there, waiting for him. He smiles to himself, glad that Sam has a friend, and gestures for his student to take a seat.

 

"Hi, Mr. Newman," he greets and Castiel tilts his head in response, setting his papers aside to give him his full attention.

 

"How are you feeling, Sam?" he asks, wondering if his first-aid helped. Sam smiles and ducks his head, shrugging.

 

"I’m good, thanks," he answers. "So how can I help?" he asks.

 

"Why don't we start with what days you're free to stay back?" Castiel suggests and Sam nods.

 

They spend the next hour planning out their schedules - Castiel offers to tutor him the whole of this week and then twice a week after midterms end - this week, to ensure that he passes the midterms, and then after, to help him catch up overall. In return, Sam agrees to watch the girls whenever Castiel needs it.

 

From there, they move on to planning Sam's study schedule, strategically identifying weak areas and where he needs extra coaching. Although Castiel is only his English teacher, he isn't surprised when the teenager hesitantly asks for coaching in other subjects, which he agrees to immediately - literature maybe his strong suit, but he remembers enough high school math and science that he can help Sam catch up.

 

The look of sheer gratitude that his student shoots him unnerves Castiel; he suspects that school and studying means a lot to Sam. _The boy probably has been shaken up since he failed the mock-test,_ he muses, smiling as Sam finally gets up, shaking his hand.

 

"Thank you," he says, voice brimming with warmth and gratitude. Castiel tilts his head, nodding lightly.

 

"Thank _you_ , Sam," he answers, "It's a relief to know that I have a sitter I can depend on."

 

It certainly has been a mess since Becky left, not that she was actually any good. Sam will be good for the girls, he hopes - not only can understand Claire easily, Castiel also has a feeling that he and Dean get what it's like to be the traumatized kids who are strangely co-dependent. He sees it in their every interaction; Sam looks up to his brother like Em does Claire. Dean protects him like Claire does Emma. That kind of familiarity eases things for the girls, makes them comfortable in the brothers' presence. 

 

As though summoned by his thoughts, Dean appears at the doorway, frowning and glaring as he stomps into Castiel's classroom.

 

_By the Lord, the man is beautiful._

 

Castiel finds himself captivated by the way he cuffs Sam's shoulder, ruffling his hair. The teenager snorts, punching his brother back immediately.

 

"You don't have to pick me up, idiot," he says exasperatedly. "I can take care of myself."

 

It's Dean to snort as he rolls his eyes. "And I'm a monkey’s uncle," he quips. "Didn't say I came to pick _you_ up, Sammy, what if I wanted to talk Cas here instead?" he jerks his head towards Castiel, who freezes.

 

_Cas._

 

Dean just called him Cas.

 

_Cas will be your name, boy,_ he hears Missouri's voice echo at the back of his head. _It will belong to you and you alone._

 

No one else has ever called him Cas before - to Anna, Gabriel and Balthazar, he was only ever Cassie. And the rest of his family wouldn't dream of shortening Castiel to anything so informal as Cas.

 

Was _this_ what she meant? Is there more to Dean and him than what he expects?

 

A sudden, unbidden image of Dean writhing below him, naked and sweating, pops up in his head. _Cas,_ he moans, the lush green of his eyes a bright ring around the aroused pupils, and Castiel snarls at himself mentally.

 

_Fuck_ this - he neither has the time nor the energy to devote to a relationship right now. Missouri's statement _had_ to be a coincidence; he can't afford to let it be anything else.

 

It isn't just that he's attracted to Dean - he _likes_ the man, he likes his brother, and in a fantasy world, he can imagine them joining Castiel and his girls, the five of them making a happy family.

 

But that's all it is - a _fantasy_ that he needs to throw out the window immediately. Because not only is Dean not interested (he doesn't even know if he likes men, for heaven's sake), such a distraction is a bad idea at this point.

 

He's already risked himself once by jumping to Dean's aid behind the alleyway. The _Sheriff_ has interrogated him for it; if he continues down this path, there's no telling how quickly Michael or Lucifer will find him.

 

Castiel must be vigilant - his edict is to protect his girls, no matter what. He can't afford to get caught, can't afford to let his guard down. Claire and Emma have to be his first priority.

 

Which is why he refuses to do anything but smile politely and correct Dean's slip.

 

"Cas?" Sam echoes his brother, raising an eyebrow and casting a suspicious look between them.

 

Castiel tilts his head and answers, " _Casper_ ," he corrects politely. "My name is Casper, _Mr. Winchester._ "

 

The subtle emphasis on Dean's last name isn't lost on the man. The warm, welcoming expression disappears and Dean immediately schools his features into something much harsher, a clam numbness that almost hurts to see. Castiel's heart sinks at the sight of it.

 

"Casper," Dean acknowledges. "Just need a word with him," he gestures to his brother. "Your friend - Eileen? - she's waitin' for you outside, I'll be right out. And then we can go home."

 

"Gee, sure, _Mom_ ," Sam says sarcastically. "I'm fine, Dean."

 

"I'm taking you home, Sam," Dean insists and Castiel watches amusedly as the teenager rolls his eyes, cuffing his brother on the shoulder as he walks out.

 

"See you later, Mr. Newman," he calls over his shoulder and Castiel offers him a small wave.

 

"See you, Sam," he calls back.

 

Silence falls between them as Castiel turns back to look at Dean, who's shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.

 

"How can I help, Mr. Winchester?" he murmurs. Dean looks up, frowning, and then shrugs.

 

"I just..." he trails off, lifting a hand to massage the bridge of his nose in exasperation, and Castiel's gaze is drawn to the smattering of freckles on his face. They're like little, tiny constellations on an already perfectly symmetrical face; he wants to trace them with the tip of his fingers and draw mindless patterns across them.

 

_The girls,_ he reminds himself, waiting for Dean to speak. _Claire. Emma. Only Claire and Emma._

 

"Just wanted to thank you," Dean blurts out. "I mean, what you're doin' for Sam'n me... "

 

"I informed Principal Tran that a student is being bullied," he points out.

 

And an interesting conversation it had been; navigating issues like this is always a treacherous business. Given that Sam does not wish to name his attackers, Castiel saw fit to be discrete, only telling her that the problem exists, not even telling her the name of the victim. From the way she pursed her lips and nodded, however, Castiel suspects that she knows - Sioux Falls High is a small school, and Sam seems more likely prospect for bullying than many others.

 

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Dean says quietly. Silence falls again and it echoes with all the things that Castiel wants to say, wants to confess.

 

Because, he's beginning to realize, fuck but he's _lonely_. Without Missouri, he has no one here. And having someone like Dean by his side would be so, so comforting - to warm his bed, to help him raises his girls, to be a part of his family. He _likes_ Dean - Dean _and_ Sam (because they're as much a package deal as Castiel and his girls are) - and that's what makes it so hard.

 

"Your personal life," Castiel clears his throat, "as I said the other day, is your own... you're a consenting adult, Dean, what you do with your body is none of my business so long as you aren't hurting anyone."

 

The smile that curves Dean's lips is humorless and sardonic - it's a reflection of what Castiel sees in the mirror each morning.

 

"CPS would beg to differ," he murmurs. "I'm a twenty-something kid struggling to make ends meet. Sam's already been selectively mute and he's been to rehab - strike three, and I'm out. And I can't afford that; he'a almost eighteen, I just need..." he shrugs again.

 

Castiel straightens up. "Sam's _selectively_ mute?" he demands, heart thudding. He's wondered, of course, why Sam and Dean know sign language; he doesn't mean to be judgemental about it, but they don't exactly come off as linguistically inclined. And here Dean is, offering up something of himself and his past - Castiel laps it up eagerly, even if he can't return it.

 

Dean nods. "For about two years," he answers gruffly, looking far too old for his young age. "He-uh..." he clears his throat, "Soon after we lost our Dad... had panic attacks for months everytime he tried to speak. I ended up learning sign language to teach him to talk again."

 

He looks straight at Castiel, those lovely eyes - the color of the everglades that Lucifer once took him to to teach him to shoot - narrowing in exhaustion.

 

"He still gets quiet sometimes," he admits softly. "Still signs when it gets too much for him to talk... I can't..." he looks away, pursing his lips.

 

The silence this time is one of solidarity and comfort - Castiel knows there's more to the story, but he doesn't push, wishing he could tell Dean just how much he understands.

 

_He_ was the one to teach Claire to speak again; _he_ was the one who sat - _still_ sits - with her every time she has a panic attack, curses himself for being a fool each time she closes her mouth without being able to say a word. It doesn't make Sam or Claire any less for dealing with their trauma this way, but the fact that they _have_ this trauma in the first place...

 

Castiel suspects that Dean's self-loathing stems from this, just like his own self-image was tattered in the wake of their run from their family.

 

"It's not easy," he whispers, "being a single parent."

 

Dean snorts, "No," he agrees. "It bloody isn't."

 

They share a smile of commiseration. It warms Castiel, who is now doubly certain of his choice to make Sam his sitter. Claire's selective mutism, her trauma and panic attacks - they won't be new, he won't have to explain them to him like he did Becky. It settles a weight in his chest he didn't even know he was carrying. _He wants to help,_ he thinks, wants to do something for Sam and Dean in return, for how much they've done - are doing - for his girls. 

 

"Dean," Castiel says in a low voice, allowing himself this one moment of weakness, of vulnerability, "Dean, if you need help... if I can do _anything-_ "

 

"You're already doin' it," he cuts in. "It's enough."

 

"But, money-" he begins.

 

"It's enough, _Casper_ ," Dean's voice turns hard. The stress on his fake name jolts Castiel back to reality and he allows him the space of a single heartbeat to mourn the fact that he will never hear his true name in that rough, deep baritone.

 

And then he tilts his head formally, offering the younger man a nod of acquiescence.

 

"Alright then, Mr. Winchester," he says. "If that is all," he gestures towards the door.

 

Dean's expression softens for an instant. "Thanks," he says again, and then he's back to being the closed-off, surly mechanic elder brother of one of Castiel's smartest students.

 

"See you later," he throws over his shoulder, exactly like said brother, and Castiel nods.  _Some other way,_ he thinks. It was stupid to offer money; he'd known even as he said it that Dean wasn't going to accept it. But he had to try - he'll find another way to return the favor, perhaps by offering Sam some self-defense lessons to protect himself from the bullies?

 

"Goodnight," he calls, mind already swirling with the possibilities. 

 

The sound of the door swinging shut is the only thing that echoes within the ensuing silence.

 

*-*-*

 

Dean sighs as he walks out of Newman's office/classroom, rubbing his temples tiredly. The past few days have been a bitch; the call from the teacher telling him that Sam's been hurt - it's his every nightmare come to life, to see his brother banged up and beat up.

 

He once sat in the hospital, waiting for Dad and Bill to wake up, only to find out that the latter wasn't coming home. And then, he was right back there, in the same waiting room, this time waiting for Sam to wake up from panic-induced nausea and dehydration, not to mention fever and what the doctors would eventually deduce as trauma-triggered selective muteness. Such big words, all trying to encompass the _silence_ Sam fell into.

 

And then, he was back there again, a third time for Sam to wake up - and this time, he didn't know if his brother was going to or not. Because Sam had fucking _overdosed_ when Dean was at work, when Dean should have been paying attention to sick pallor of his brother's skin, to the constant, dreamy look in his eyes, to the lack of food and the threat of Ruby.

 

That phone call brought back memories he'd rather forget, memories he's piled up horseshit on. He raced to the school, freaking out, shaking and panting -

 

\- only to be propositioned by the same teacher he's been panicking will get him fucking arrested and get Sam taken away.

 

_Quid pro quo,_ Casper Newman said. Immediately, he corrected himself - Dean can still see the look of horror on his face when he realized what he sounded like, as though he was asking for sex in exchange for tutoring Sam.

 

And now, walking out of the man's office, Dean allows himself to imagine it - he imagines the roughness of those long, talented fingers he's just seen grabbing a pen pulling at his cock, he imagines those pink-grey lips pressing themselves against his own mouth and he imagines that whiskey-soaked voice whispering filth into his ears. He imagines those electric blue eyes blown with pleasure, watching as Dean strips them both and kisses him senseless.

 

He imagines, and he _wants_.

 

_Not possible,_ he reminds himself. Cas - _Casper_ \- is a man way, way beyond Dean's reach. Not only is the DILF unavailable, he's also Sam's teacher. Even if he did like dudes, no way in hell would that not be a conflict of interest.

 

But more importantly, this seems to be the first teacher interested in Sam's future, other than Linda Tran. Dean is _not_ fucking that up - Sam is going to whichever bloody college he's looking at, no matter what happens. His libido can suck it. 

 

"Dean?"

 

Speaking of... the mechanic turns around to see his brother, loitering around the hallways, a dark-haired girl next to him. It’s the same girl from before, who’d literally bumped into him when he was walking into Newman’s office - Eileen, he remembers.

 

_Hello,_ he signs, smiling briefly. She looks surprised, smiling widely before she signs back.

 

_Hi,_ she grins, _didn’t think you’d know how to sign too._

 

Sam snorts, but there’s a look of warmth on his face. “Who do you think taught me?” he asks, “Dean likes to pretend he’s stupid, but he’s one of the smartest people I know.”

 

Dean flushes, clocking his brother’s arm in retaliation. He’ll never admit it, but that kind of validation from Sam feels nice.

 

Eileen’s smile grows, “It’s always nice to meet people who can sign,” she says, almost wistfully. Dean smiles - it can’t be easy for her, he reflects, studying in a school like this where she’s the odd one out for just being different, even if she does have an Implant to help her attend.

 

“Incoming,” Sam elbows him and Dean looks up, momentarily distracted. Before he can ask what, something small and soft collides with his legs and he stumbles back.

 

“Ooomph,” he grunts and bends down, only to come face-to-face with golden blonde hair and bright blue eyes.

 

Another small, redheaded streak heads straight for Sam, and he finds his lips curving into a wide grin as he watches his brother bend down to receive her, throwing his arms open for the pre-schooler to lean into.

 

“Sam!” Emma’s as exuberant as he remembers her being and he chuckles.

 

“Hi Em,” Sam murmurs, holding his hand up for a high-five, which she jumps up to return happily. It’s hilarious as fuck seeing her tip-toe, stick her tongue and reach up to hit the hand that Sam purposefully holds just this side shy of too high - she giggles when she does manage to get it, and Dean can’t help the chortle that escapes him at the sight of her loud cheer.

 

He’s glad Sam is going to be their sitter; he’s met these two only now and he already wants to keep them safe and happy. _Becky_ certainly wasn’t going to do that - he knows Sam will.

 

In his arms, Claire’s giggling quietly as well and he turns to her with a grin. _Hi,_ he signs first, and then switches to his voice, “How’re you doin’, Claire?”

 

_I’m good,_ she signs back. _How are you?_

 

“Good, thanks, kiddo,” he responds.

 

“Sam!” Emma cries again, “You gonn’ be our babysitta, Da-ddy said!”

 

It’s Sam turn to chuckle and he nods, “Yup,” he pops the _P_ to Emma’s wide-eyed look. “I am,” he looks at Claire, signing a quick _hello_ before continuing, “If that’s okay with you two?”

 

Claire pulls back and heads over to Sam. _We’ll be pleased to have you,_ she signs and Dean holds back a snort - clearly, she takes after her Dad in her manner of speech and it’s fucking adorable.

 

_Why thank you,_ Sam signs. Behind him, Eileen giggles and Claire looks up, distracted.

 

_Who’re you?_ she asks. Dean opens his mouth to introduce her, but before he can, Eileen steps forward and signs herself, spelling her name out while also saying it to sound it out.

 

_I’m E-I-L-E-E-N_ , she signs, “Eileen.”

 

Emma frowns, “Eilee’?” she says.

 

“Eileen,” the elder girl nods _. It means light,_ she signs, “which is why in ASL, you use the word for light,” she demonstrates by flicking out all her fingers, indicating light rays.

 

Emma’s frown deepens and she tilts her head - _just like her father_ , Dean notes - as she raises her hand and tries to copy Eileen’s movements. And the seriousness with which tries to get it right makes him smile; she never does anythin’ half-assed, does she?

 

_Hi, Eileen,_ she signs perfectly and Claire claps. Eileen grins, offering her another high-five.

 

_And who’re you?_

 

“I’m Emma,” she says enthusiastically, “This Claiwe,” she gestures to her sister. She pauses, chewing on her lip and then marches up to Dean with a confused look on her face.

 

“What’s youa name, mista?” she demands. He blinks.

 

“I’m Dean, kid,” he tells her, “Don't you remember?”

 

She rolls her eyes with a long-suffering sigh and Dean sees Sam snort from the corner of his eyes.

 

“I know,” she says emphatically. “ _Dee_. But how I sign?”

 

Claire ambles up to him and pulls Dean down with a gentle tug on his pants. He raises an eyebrow and stares down at her questioningly.

 

_S-A-M,_ she signs, _is -_ she raises both her hands and spreads her palms out, placing them on either of her head, making antlers.

 

Dean blinks, “Moose?” he asks slowly. Sam makes a strangled noise across him and Eileen’s chortling quietly and an evil grin curves his lips as he turns to his blushing brother. That’s right - Newman did say the girls nicknamed him Moose.

 

“Moose,” he snickers. “Suits him.”

 

“Shut up,” Sam mutters with a quick roll of his eyes. A wicked smirk lights up his face and he turns to Emma who is scowling at them.

 

“Dee, sign,” she demands.

 

“Y’know, Em,” Sam says conversationally, “Dean and I used to just use _S_ and _D_ for our names,” he demonstrates. “But since you named _me_ Moose… don't you think you should give _Dean_ a name too?”

 

Emma tilts her head, considering it, padding back to Claire and taking her hand, pulling the blonde girl in closer as though to share a secret.

 

“Dee, I name you?” she asks him suspiciously.

 

Dean shrugs. “Eh, go for it, kid,” he offers. “Name away.”

 

The girls huddle for a long moment, both their hands flying furiously. Dean’s almost surprised at how fluent Emma is in ASL; she seems to be able to speak it even better than English, what with her lisp and all.

 

“Sam-Moose,” he hears bits of their conversation, “Dee… no, squiww- yes, Claiwe, he looks-”

 

_We have a name for you,_ Claire announces when they split apart. Sam sniggers, waiting expectantly and Dean leans over to punch the younger Winchester lightly.

 

“You, Dee,” Emma says confidently, “look like squiwwel.”

 

“Squi-what?” Dean asks, puzzled. Eileen’s shoulders are shaking slightly, he sees from the corner of his eyes, and he throws a quick glare at her.

 

Claire pulls him down again and he goes down automatically. _You look like,_ she signs, _a -_ she extends the index and middle fingers of both her hands and brings them together, _\- a squirrel._

 

She steps backward, points to Sam and says, _S-A-M, Moose,_ and then points back to Dean and continues, _D-E-A-N, Squirrel._

 

“Yeah!” Emma cheers, as her elder sister drops her hands and nods in a satisfied manner.

 

Warm, affectionate laughter bubbles in his throat and Dean bends down to pull at her long, red pigtail. "Did you just call me a squirrel, you little monkey?" he demands and she whirls out of his grasp, sticking her tongue out at him in retaliation. Sam’s snorting and holding back his own laugh and Eileen’s giggling, but he ignores both of them, feeling something stir at the solemn, wide-eyed looks on both girls’ faces.

 

_You look like one,_ Claire says.  _You're very cute._ There's a soft, red blush on her face and she smiles shyly.

 

Dean grins at her. "Well, thanks, kid,” he states, faking a quick bow, “I am honored to have such a noble name bestowed on me by such beautiful ladies.”

 

“Lay it on thick,” Sam sniggers and Dean kicks him lightly.

 

“Welcome!” Emma nods.

 

Claire giggles and makes a small curtsy of her own and Dean shakes his head. “You kids goin’ in to see you Dad?” he gestures towards the office door, which has been closed all this time.

 

“Da-ddy!” Emma gasps, “Yes!” She reaches out to give Sam a quick hug and then moves back to kick Dean lightly. He pulls back, faking a groan and bends down, frowning at her.

 

“Kid, what?” he barks and she shrugs innocently. Behind her, Claire lets out a long-suffering sigh, sharing a look of such elder-sibling commiseration with Dean that he barely holds back his laugh.

 

_Em,_ she signs, _Not nice._

 

Emma makes a face, squishing up her eyes. Without another word, she marches over to her father’s office door and yanks the handle open, racing in. Claire rolls her eyes and turns to Dean, pulling down for a quick kiss on his cheek.

 

_Bye,_ she says, waving at Sam as well. _See you soon, Sam._

 

The Moose-sign she makes is still hilarious as fuck and Dean smirks at his brother as she ambles away, closing the door shut behind her. Reaching across, he ruffles Sam’s long-ass hair and pokes at his temples.

 

“I don't have antlers just cuz they call me Moose, _Squirrel_ ,” Sam shoos him off irritatedly. Eileen finally gives up and collapses on the bench behind her, bony shoulders shaking madly with soft giggles.

 

Dean watches as Sam turns to her, bumping shoulders with her affectionately, rolling his eyes.

 

“It isn’t _that_ funny,” he grumbles and her laughter increases in volume - and it hits Dean.

 

Sam has a _friend_ , maybe more than one. Whatever the fuck happened with those bullies, Sam won’t be facing them alone. It settles some of the worry that always gnaws at him - Eileen comes off as being tough and good in a way that Ruby didn't.

 

Dean has no idea why he trusts her, but he has a feeling that she won't tolerate Sam falling back into drugs.

 

_And maybe… just maybe…_ he thinks as he glances at the closed door behind him out of the corner of his eyes. Casper Newman can't be anything more than a friend, but at the very least… he could be a friend.

  
He’d be lying if he said he didn't want - or need - one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER THOUGHTS - 
> 
> Yes, Moose and Squirrel. No, I make no apologies. :P I Googled Eileen's name to figure out what she'd call herself in ASL and decided to go with what the name means (what Google told me it means at least). Thoughts on what Claire and Emma should be? So far, I imagine them using their letters, C and M, but I'd love to hear what y'all think!


	16. Barside Assembly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel asks Sam and Dean to babysit the girls during his meeting at The Roadhouse; meanwhile, Charlie has an idea. Some angst, major domestic fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS - Recollection/talk of drug addiction and rehab, mentions of selective mutism and social anxiety, slight ableism, crude language

**Chapter 15 - Barside Assembly**

 

Midterms come and go in the blink of an eye and Sam’s surprised to find that he isn’t completely lost. He’s reasonably confident that he’s passed all of them and it’s all thanks to Mr. Newman. Waving at Eileen after he’s handed his last paper in, he gathers his books and heads out, whistling under his breath. He heads down the hallway in the direction of the English teacher’s office, dodging the rest of the student body who are jumping around in excitement themselves. With midterms done, there are only a few weeks left before the winter break, and the school is thrumming with the restless anticipation of the upcoming holidays.

 

Sam would be lying if he said he isn’t excited either. School is taxing on the best of days; if he isn’t dodging Jake and his buddies, then he’s trying to actively avoid spaces like the under the bleachers where he and Ruby used to hang out. At least outside of school, he can breathe a little bit, bury the constant itch of his addiction so far beneath his skin that he barely notices it anymore.

 

More importantly, holidays mean that he can spend more time with his friends outside at home. Not that he has many of them, anyway, but with tutoring and studying, he’s barely had time to himself. All he and Eileen have been able to do is study together and he doesn’t even wanna think about how pissed Ellen and Jo are for the number of rain checks he owes them on dinner.

 

He and Jess haven’t been able to hang out either.

 

Since that day in the parking lot, they’ve exchanged a few shy smiles in the hallways, sat together at lunch (with Eileen tagging along) and once, Jess pecked his cheek goodbye. But the date they were meant to go on has been postponed on Sam’s request; Jess agreed with a soft smile when he told her he was determined to catch up to studying first.

 

And now that his midterms are done, he’s going to do it - he’s going to ask her out with him this weekend.

 

Grinning widely at that thought, he knocks on Mr. Newman’s door, walking in at his call of, “Come in!”

 

The dark-haired man looks up, a frazzled expression on his face which soon settles into one of welcoming warmth. “Sam,” he tilts his head, “How are you?”

 

“I’m good,” he answers, “Just finished the last of my midterms.”

 

Mr. Newman smiles. “And how’d it go?” he asks concernedly.

 

Sam’s grin widens, “I think I did well,” he replies honestly. “Not getting any straight As, but I’m good.”

 

“That’s good,” Mr. Newman responds, pausing, before continuing, his voice soft. “I’m proud of you,” he says quietly. “I know I haven’t been your teacher for very long, but for what it’s worth, Sam… you’re one of my best students and I’m proud of you.”

 

The teenager feels his throat tighten with emotion. “Thank you,” he whispers, “I wouldn't have been…” the look in Mr. Newman’s eyes is knowing, those blue eyes glinting with an intelligence that astonishes Sam, “Thank _you_ for believing in me.”

 

Because Mr. Newman has _not_ been an easy-going teacher. Hell no - in the past week, Sam’s studied harder than he ever has in his whole life. The English teacher has been relentless in his tutoring, keeping him in until late into the night, giving him enough homework that Sam’s pulled more all-nighters than he has in a long time. Despite having two young daughters, classes and assignments to grade, Mr. Newman has not been lax in working out a plan for Sam and ensuring that he studies.

 

No other teacher has ever been so concerned for Sam, not even before his almost-death stint behind the bleachers. Having someone believe in him enough to push him so hard… Dean’s the only other person who has that much faith in him, and as much as his brother’s faith means everything to him, a part of Sam’s always worried that Dean believes in him only because they’re related.

 

Mr. Newman is, in no way, obligated to believe in him and he does so anyway; as his teacher, sees potential in him - he wouldn’t waste his time otherwise. 

 

It’s exhilarating and terrifying - it’s invigorating, because for once, it’s not his trauma or his addiction driving him towards his work.

 

Mr. Newman tilts his head in acknowledgement of Sam’s gratitude. He clicks at his mouse for a second, checking something on his computer, before abruptly turning back to Sam and saying, “Would you be free this weekend?”

 

Sam blinks. “Uh, sure,” he answers.

 

“I was wondering if you’d be able to watch the girls,” he asks in a straightforward, business tone. “We have a new substitute teacher coming in from the next town and Principal Tran has asked me to show her around.”

 

“A new teacher?” Sam frowns. “In the middle of the term?”

 

Mr. Newman nods, “For computer science, I believe, since Ms. Tessa hasn’t been feeling well?”

 

“Oh right,” Sam remembers; he hasn’t taken Computer Science this term, so he only peripherally knows what’s happening with the other courses. “What time would you like me to come over?”

 

The teacher pauses, considering. “Ms. Bradbury is set to meet me for brunch at The Roadhouse, so… about 10?”

 

“The Roadhouse?” Sam asks in surprise.

 

“Yes?” Mr. Newman sounds confusion. “Is there a problem?”

 

“No, it’s just Ellen and Jo are - the owners? - practically family,” Sam explains, “We grew up together, Jo, Dean and I… our parents…” he hesitates, wondering how much he should tell him and then forges on, “Well, our Dad was really close to them before he left.”

 

“I see.”

 

“If you’re alright with it,” he continues, “We could bring the girls to The Roadhouse. Both Ellen and Jo can sign and they’re good with kids…?” he trails off at the frown on Mr. Newman’s face, “...or not,” he finishes weakly.

 

“You want me to bring my girls to a bar?” Mr. Newman asks gruffly and Sam blinks.

 

Oh _fuck_.

 

“Sorry, sorry!” he rushes to apologize, “Uh… I’m sorry, I forgot.” he smiles sheepishly. “It’s just that Dean and I used to hang out there all the time, we barely remembered that it was also a bar. Ellen has tables set up during the day for greasy diner food, so...”

 

The irritation vanishes from Mr. Newman’s expression, though it still remains pinched. “Of course,” he accepts. “But…”

 

“It’s your call, Mr. Newman,” Sam says softly. “But Ellen and Jo are good people and they love kids. And they know sign language from when I used to be mute. I just thought Claire and Emma might enjoy meeting more people.”

 

Mr. Newman sighs, raising his hands to pinch the bridge of his nose.

 

“And forgive me if I’m wrong,” Sam continues, “I think you would too - you look like you need it.”

 

He doesn’t back away from the challenging gaze his teacher shoots him with; it’s definitely not a barrier for a student to cross, but Sam’s seen the tiredness, the loneliness lurking behind Mr. Newman’s stoic facade - it’s the same look he sees on Dean’s face every morning.

 

He wants to _help_. Something’s going on between his brother and Mr. Newman, but in the last week, Dean hasn’t sought him out and neither has Mr. Newman contacted Dean that Sam knows of. He doesn’t wanna get involved in whatever icky sexual tension is happening there, but he does have a feeling that the two would - at the very least - make good friends.

 

“Sam, you-” Mr. Newman begins and then falls quiet, pursing his lips. Sam waits, ignoring the prickling of his neck in the uncomfortable silence that settles over them.

 

“You’re right,” he finally sighs. “Claire and Emma have been isolated from most people other than who they meet at school…” he looks up with a wan smile, “as have I,” he finishes. “It would be nice to meet more people.”

 

Sam grins, “So I’ll meet you at The Roadhouse?”

 

“If you could come by my house a bit earlier and help me get the girls ready…?” Mr. Newman requests. “Claire prefers to sleep in on the weekends, getting her to move out early is nothing short of an achievement.”

 

“Claire?” Sam asks in surprise, “I’d think Emma’d be the more difficult one.” He flushes as soon as he’s said it, realizing what he sounds like. He opens his mouth to apologize when Mr. Newman chuckles.

 

“Indeed,” he agrees, “But you’d be surprised at how stubborn Claire can be when she sets her mind to it.”

 

Sam smiles, “Guess she’s had to harden up,” he says quietly. Mr. Newman’s face shuts down, blue eyes reflecting the same self-recrimination and worry he sees on Dean everyday.

 

“Yes,” he echoes. Then, he visibly straightens up, tilting his head towards the door, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Sam.”

 

It’s as clear a dismissal as any and Sam takes the hint.

 

“See you tomorrow, Mr. Newman,” he answers. “I’ll tell Jo and Ellen that we’re coming by with kids tomorrow, they’ll clear out the booze as much as they can for us.”

 

Mr. Newman nods, but his mind is already far away, Sam can tell, so he simply waves and heads back out, already planning out tomorrow’s agenda for the girls.

 

He’s looking forward to seeing them.

 

*-*-*

 

Claire is still struggling with her shoes when the doorbell rings. She looks up with wide eyes, tilting her head towards the door and Castiel drops a quick kiss to her forehead before getting to his feet. He heads out to the living room, where Emma is on the couch with a book spread out over her lap, her tongue poking out as she peruses her letters seriously.

 

The bell rings again and Castiel hurries to open the door, coming face to face with a grinning Sam Winchester, hand raised to ring it a third time. “Sam,” he greets. “Come in,” he steps aside. “Please give me a moment, let me get the girls ready.”

 

Sam’s brow furrows and he peeks inside before turning back to wave at an old, classic-looking black car behind him. Castiel follows his gaze, confused, until Dean waves out the window. He looks back at his student with questioningly.

 

“Is that…?” he trails off and Sam nods.

 

“It’s Dean’s day off too,” he explains. “And Ellen and Jo’ve been askin’ us to stop by for a while now, so…” he shrugs, an apologetic look on his face. “Sorry, if you’re not comfortable-”

 

“Of course not, Sam,” Castiel interrupts him. “I’d be happy to have Dean come with us.”

 

Sam doesn’t need to know just _how_ happy he is - Castiel rolls his eyes internally at the thought, ignoring the sudden leap of his heart at Dean’s wave.

 

“I’ll help the girls get ready,” Sam pushes past him, walking into the house. Castiel opens his mouth to protest, but the teenager continues. “It’s what you hired me for, Mr. Newman,” he reminds him.

 

“Sam!” Emma sets the books aside and jumps to her feet, climbing off the couch to race over to him. She wraps herself around his calves tightly and Sam chuckles, patting her dark red hair. Castiel sighs, offering Sam a tired smile, and tilts his head towards the door. “Why don't you take this one out, I’ll bring Claire down?” he suggests.

 

Sam nods, “Sure,” he agrees. Bending down, he waits for Emma to step back before holding his arms out to her. “Hey Em,” he says, “Would you like a piggyback ride outside?”

 

Emma nods enthusiastically, “Sam be horsey!” she claps and Sam chuckles again, turning around so she can climb on to his back. She doesn’t hesitate for a second, and Castiel finds himself ridiculously glad at the glowing smile on her face as Sam gets to his feet.

 

“Hang on tight!” he calls, shooting Castiel a wink before wobbling a little on purpose. He isn’t worried; he sees the way Sam holds her legs tightly, the way he's careful with her and he finds his own lips curving into a warm smile at Emma’s loud, happy shriek.

 

“Let’s go!” Sam walks out to the driveway and Castiel heads back to the bedroom.

 

Claire is playing with her shoelaces, tugging and untugging them. His smile fades and he goes on his knees in front of her, gently taking her hands away from the laces and pressing a soft kiss to her palms before quickly doing her laces.

 

“What’s wrong, Claire-Bear?” he asks softly.

 

She looks up at him with a tired smile and his heart aches again at the expression; goddamn it, she’s  _barely_ six. How the hell does she look so _old?_

 

She pulls her hands from him to sign, _Will…_ she hesitates and he nods encouragingly, _will you be there?_

 

Understanding floods him - Claire is _afraid_ of going out. It’s been quite a while since her social anxiety came to play, he was hoping it was a phase, that she was over it. But then anxiety isn’t something one gets _over_ , is it? And Claire struggles each day without her voice, he doesn’t want to add to it, so he simply thumbs her cheek, cupping her small face in his big, rough hands.

 

“If you don't feel up to going out today,” he murmurs, “I can ask Dean to drive me and Em to The Roadhouse, have Sam stay in with you.”

 

She brightens up at that, her small hands shaking tremulously as she asks, _Mr. Dean is here?_

 

He nods, hiding a grin at the sign for _Squirrel_ the girls have elected as Dean’s ASL name. As much as he wants to deny his own attraction to the elder Winchester, he can’t help but warm up at the way his girls have adopted him - him _and_ his brother.

 

“Yeah,” he answers, “Sam said that they’re very close to Ms. Ellen and Ms. Jo,” he tells her, “And remember, both of them also know sign language, so you’ll be fine, I promise.”

 

She chews on her bottom lip for a moment, considering it. _You’ll be there, Daddy?_ she repeats.

 

He leans in, resting his forehead against hers. “Always, Claire-Bear,” he murmurs.

 

She smiles, bumps his nose with her own and then pulls back, signing, _Alright. Let’s go._

 

_You’re sure?_

 

She jumps up, holding her arms out for him to pick her up. He obliges, settling her on his hip, looking at her questioningly.

 

_Let’s go, Daddy,_ she insists. _I want to see Sam and Mr. Dean._

 

He chuckles, “Alright then, baby,” he agrees, walking down the stairs. He sets her down and she races out the door to where the black monstrosity of a car is visible. He follows her at a more sedate pace, turning back to lock the door.

 

“Hey Claire,” he hears Sam call out.

 

“Hello kiddo,” Dean’s voice follows and for a moment, Castiel’s breath hitches. He sighs, straightening his shoulders; when he turns back around, he sees the elder Winchester jumping out of the car to pick Claire up and high-five her.

 

His heart leaps but he forces himself to relax, walking up to them calmly. “Hello,” he hesitates and then continues, “Hello, Dean.”

 

Dean’s face is impassive, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face as he nods at him. “Hey,” he pauses, leveling Castiel with a quizzical look, “Cas?”

 

Emma claps her hands and nods enthusiastically. “Cas!” she cries, “That’s Mama Missri’s name for Da-ddy!”

 

Dean shoots her a confused look as Castiel flushes.

 

“Mama Missri?” Sam asks.

 

“Missouri Moseley,” Castiel answers, “Our old neighbor and the girls’ godmother… of sorts.”

 

Dean opens his mouth - to question them, no doubt - but then nods and closes his mouth. Castiel finds himself grateful for the reticence; how does he even begin to explain what Missouri means to him and the girls? Claire barely remembers Anna, and Emma not even that - Missouri’s the only mother figure they’ve ever had in their lives.

 

And he’s taken that away too.

 

Ignoring the irritating thought, he tilts his head at Dean in acquiescence, “Cas is good,” he tells him softly, “At least outside school.”

 

“Makes sense,” Dean grunts. “Cas.”

 

“Le’s go!” Emma cries, clambering close to the passenger door of the car. Sam stops her, lifting her up as she pouts. “Sam!” she protests.

 

“Dean’s very particular about his car, Em,” he says apologetically, shooting his brother a smirk.

 

“That’s right, kid,” Dean says. “Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole. Agreed?”

 

“You said a bad word!” Emma gasps. 

 

“You gonna throw me in the brig for it?” Dean riles her up and she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest with a pout. “I won't tell your dad if you don’t.”

 

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I dunno if you’re the child or if she is,” he mutters.

 

“Dean, Mr. Newman,” Sam agrees, “it’s definitely Dean.”

 

“Shut up and get in the car,” Dean grunts, before grinning evilly. “Sam-Moose.”

 

Sam lets out a long-suffering sigh, throwing the passenger door open and sliding into the car. He holds a hand out to Emma, who clambers in after him, settling herself on his lap comfortably without hesitation.

 

Claire claps and palms Dean’s face. He turns to her, raising a golden eyebrow, and for a second, Castiel is taken aback at the fondness on his face.

 

_Mr. Dean,_ she signs, _you’ll be there the whole day?_

 

Dean grins, “You want me to, kiddo?” he asks.

 

“Yes!” Emma chirps from where she’s holding Sam’s hand.

 

Claire shoots her sister an irritated look at the interruption, but turns back to Dean earnestly. _Yes, please._

 

She’s being _shy_ , Castiel is startled to realize. The flush on her cheeks, the sudden warmth on her face…

 

Looks like his daughter has a crush.

 

_Oh Claire,_ he thinks, _I know,_ watching Dean’s grin widen as he kisses her on the cheek, her blush spreading down her neck at the sweet gesture.

 

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, after all.

 

*-*-*

 

Dean’s heart is about three times its usual size as he walks into The Roadhouse, Claire settled comfortably on his hip. Her hands are flying earnestly as she chatters about this Mama Missri and he smiles at her, watching amusedly as the flush on her cheeks intensifies.

 

Next to him, Casper is quiet, watching them with those intense as fuck blue eyes, and Dean feels himself flush at the strength of that gaze. Ignoring the way his stomach flip-flops, he leads them into the bar, making a beeline for the tables. Behind them, Emma is chattering away with Sam, her lisp even more pronounced in her excitement.

 

This time of the day, The Roadhouse is quite empty, with only one or two of it regulars sitting at their usual tables.

 

“Ellen!” Dean calls, patting Claire’s head gently. “Oi, Ellen! Jo!”

 

The redheaded girl sitting at one of the tables startles, dropping the tablet she’s holding. It falls to the ground with a clutter and Emma lets go of Sam’s hand to race over, picking it up to hand it to her.

 

“Ca’ful!” she scolds, “Da-ddy says don’ throw things.”

 

Dean snorts, unsurprised and highly amused at her response.

 

The redhead takes it from her, a strange expression on her face. “Right you are kid,” she says, “Sorry, I slipped.”

 

Casper steps forward to pick his daughter up. “I apologize,” he mutters, “My daughter is quite… enthusiastic.”

 

She looks up at him, a fleeting smile curving her lips before it vanishes. “Cast... Casper Newman?” she asks hesitantly, eyeing him up and down.

 

“Ms. Bradbury, I assume,” Cas says, settling Emma on his hip. She pouts, burying her face in his shoulder.

 

“Call me Charlie,” she says, “I’m not old enough to be a Miss Bradbury yet.”

 

“Not what your students are gonna call you,” Dean cuts in, " _Ms_. Bradbury.”

 

Because, honestly, she does look a little young to be a teacher. How she expects any of her students to take her seriously when she's wearing a _Espresso Patronum_ shirt with a picture of a wand-wielding coffee-mug on it, he has no idea. She’s small, like Jo is, and barely looks older than his pseudo-sister. But then, so is he - she’s not much older than he himself is, he guesses. 

 

“Stop annoying my customers, Dean.”

 

Speak of the devil.

 

Jo comes at him with a scowl on her face, crossing her arms over her chest as she glares at him.

 

“Hot damn, kid,” he grunts, “The hell have you been?” he whirls around, “and where’s Ellen?”

 

Claire pats his cheek and Dean shoots her a momentary glance, raising a questioning eyebrow at the kid.

 

_This is your sister?_ she asks, _the one who likes princesses?_

 

Dean blinks, thrown at the reference, before the memory hits - he told her about Jo the night they met, didn't he? Mentally swallowing a groan at the ribbing he knows he’s going to get, he nods at Claire, gesturing to the taller blonde.

 

“Claire,” he says, “Emma, Cas,” he turns to Jo, grinning evilly, “meet Joanna Beth.”

 

Jo doesn’t say anything, calmly walking over to him. Before Dean can say anything else, she kicks his foot harshly and he yelps, nearly dropping Claire, who slides down easily and lands on her feet.

 

Ignoring his outcry, Jo bends down, holding her hands out.  _Hello,_ she signs, _my name is J-O._ She spells it out, “You’re Claire?”

 

Claire smiles shyly, nodding. _Hi,_ she says, _Mr. Dean told me about you._

 

“Really?” Jo grins slyly at him, “What’d the squirrel say?” she waggles her eyebrows at his ASL name and he snorts in response. 

 

_He said that you and Sam,_ Claire smiles at them both, _like princesses. And that you… you kick ass._

 

Her hands still stutter at the ‘ass’ and Dean chuckles at Casper’s frown. Jo smiles and shakes Claire’s hands while Sam huffs at the ‘liking princesses’ thing.

 

“Really, Dean?” he grumps and Dean reaches over to ruffle his hair. Sam pushes his hand away, sharing a look of younger sibling commiseration with Emma, who simply rolls her eyes.

 

“Don't deny it, Sammy, you know it’s true,” he crows at them.

 

“Well, Jo,” Charlie Bradbury offers his sister a sultry smile, “Princesses _do_ kick ass.”

 

There’s a flush on Jo’s face that’s entirely too telling as she sneaks a quick glance at the redhead, and oh _hell_ , Dean knows that look, he’s even seen it aimed at him back when Jo was a teenager.

 

Jo _likes_ this Charlie girl.

 

“Ms. Bradbury,” Casper interrupts before anyone can say anything else. “You understand ASL?”

 

Dean blinks - right, Claire signed that, didn’t she? He’s gotten used to ASL again so quickly, he’s almost surprised at himself. Then again, Claire reminds him so much of Sam in those mute years, he shouldn't be, really. She’s wormed her way under his skin too fast - both she and her sister.

 

He sneaks a glance at the girls’ father. Alright, so she, her sister _and_ her father - he likes Cas, not that he can ever admit it. He’s attracted to Cas, but he _likes_ the man, likes his honest, blunt approach, likes the devotion he has to his daughters and likes the dedication he shows his students.

 

Casper Newman has been pushing Sam to do his best - Dean can see the way his brother straightens up, seeking his teacher’s approval. And as much as it stings that Sam can’t accept Dean’s word that he’s good, it makes him happy that there’s someone who sees and believes in Sam’s potential.

 

His baby brother deserves no less.

 

“I do,” Charlie nods, “A long time ago…” she hesitates, her expression unreadable, “An old friend taught me.”

 

Casper tilts his head. “I see,” he says softly.

 

“It was one of the reasons Principal Tran hired me,” she explains. “Especially since there are number of HoH students attending the school?”

 

Sam nods. “My friend, Eileen,” he tells her, “she’s got an implant, but she prefers to sign.”

 

Charlie nods, “Principal Tran also has another proposal, Mr. Newman,” she turns to Casper, “Maybe we should…?” she gestures to the table behind her.

 

Casper nods, turning to Sam, holding out a wiggling Emma, who holds her own arms for the younger Winchester to pick her up. Sam steps past Dean, quickly grabbing her, just as Jo stands up, patting Claire’s cheek.

 

“I’ll get you guys somethin’ to eat,” she says, “For you… Mr. Newman?” she leaves it hanging and Casper nods.

 

“Call me,” he hesitates, shooting Dean a strange look, “Call me Cas.”

 

Jo nods, “Cas, then. What’ll you have?”

 

“Uh,” he takes a quick look at the menu, “A burger?”

 

“Man after my own heart,” Dean grins, “I’mma take the kids out back to introduce ‘em to Ellen, that alright?”

 

Casper looks uneasy, and opens his mouth as though to protest. Sam jumps in just then, quick to play the peacemaker as always. “No booze, I promise,” he says in a low voice, “We’ll just be a shout away.”

 

“Mom’s good with kids,” Jo adds her two cents and Casper pauses. Dean’s gaze is drawn to the way he chews on his lower lip, considering it, before nodding and sighing.

 

“Alright,” he agrees.

 

“Great,” Jo grins, “I’ll get your food out in a minute. Charlie,” Dean does not miss the suggestive undercurrent as she leans over the redhead, “The same as last time?”

 

Hell, he’s not imagining it. Jo _does_ have a thing for Charlie - and it seems to be mutual, if the way she leans back into her touch means anything.

 

“You know it,” she answers.

 

“Is she…?” Sam mutters and Dean shrugs.

 

“Better not get in her way, Sammy,” he replies, “Or Jo’ll eat us up.”

 

The girl is a bloody shark when she wants to be. He’s known it since she was barely a teenager, clinging to his shirt and hanging off of him at Bill’s funeral, teary-eyed but determined to be there for her heartbroken mother.

 

Grinning at the thought, he picks Claire up and settles her back on his hip, watching his brother do the same with the younger Newman. Warmth settles into his chest as he walks into the back of The Roadhouse, where Ellen’s preoccupied with the grill.

 

_Hell_ , he reflects as small fingers curl trustingly against his shirt, _looks like he’s got a few more kids hanging off of him now._

 

He’d be lying if he said he minded.

 

*-*-*

 

Gabriel looks up as the door flies open, Charlie stalking into the room with a frown on her face. She stomps over to the  workstation they’ve set up for her in the corner of the tiny motel room they’ve made their work-base in this god awful town.

 

He watches amusedly as she yanks her laptop out of her bag, huffing when she sees no space on the table for it. Before he can say anything, she picks up her laptop and stomps back to one of the two beds in the room, dumping it on top of a pillow and throwing herself on to it.

 

“Red-” he begins.

 

She throws up her index finger, cutting him off, indicating that he keep quiet.

 

Gabriel blinks. “Uh, I’d be offended but-”

 

“Ssshhh!” she hisses, fingers flying over her keypad, her eyes trained on the screen. She ignores his huff and sticks her face so close to laptop that he worries for a second that she’ll fall into it.

 

And the sight is so familiar, so welcome, it makes him want to weep - fuck, but he feels like he just has to turn around and he’ll see Kali gliding in at any second now, her very presence a magnetic pull that he can’t resist.

 

Man, but he _misses_ that woman; it’s been more than a decade, but he will never love someone as deeply as he did his Indian valkyrie. As beautiful, as dangerous as the goddess she was named for, Kali was the light of his life.

 

And Charlie was the best friend she protected fiercely; seeing her now, the intense concentration on her face, the furrow of her brow and the way she throws her hair back in irritation as it falls on her face…

 

God, how does he even _begin_ to articulate this tangle of messy emotions in his stupid chest?

 

Gabriel doesn’t know - he’s never been quite the emotional one. He doesn’t care for feelings, he’d much rather stick a fart-pillow under someone.

 

So he simply looms big behind the redhead, grinning wickedly as she remains ignorant for a long moment, before darting around, realizing that someone’s behind her.

 

“What?” she huffs.

 

“Stare any harder and your eyes will get crossed permanently,” he teases, “‘s goin’ on, Red?”

 

She rolls her eyes, shrugging him off distractedly before turning back to her laptop. “G’away,” she mutters, “I’m busy.”

 

“Clearly,” he snorts, “you haven’t insulted me even once.”

 

“My bad,” she responds, “G’away, _midget_.”

 

He punches his chest in mock-horror, “You wound me, sister!” he fakes a sob and she rolls her eyes, finally setting her laptop aside. Pausing, she looks around, finally noticing that the third member of their de-facto unit is missing.

 

“Where’s Baz?” she asks.

 

“Finally noticed, didja?” he grunts. She purses her lips and raises one elegant red eyebrow in a manner _so_ reminiscent of Kali, Gabriel knows she can’t have learned it anywhere else but his late fiancée. Ignoring the slight pang of his heart, he smirks at her before answering.

 

“I sent him back to the estate,” his smile fades as her frown deepens.

 

“What the fuck, Gabe?” she demands, “Why?”

 

“To maintain cover,” he shoots back, “Baz’s been here with us too long, Charlie. Mikey and Luci sent him to find out if news of Cassie being alive was real; how long do you think it’ll take to confirm that?”

 

“He did report back immediately that Castiel was dead, didn’t he?” she asks confusedly.

 

“Yeah, but a cover story holds only so long,” he answers. “Baz may have told them he wanted to find and punish whoever sent the ‘false’ info, but he can’t delay goin’ back to the estate forever.”

 

“Is he,” she gulps, “Is he gonna be alright?”

 

“He’ll be okay,” Gabriel insists. “He has to be.”

 

He isn't sure whom he’s trying to convince; the room’s been fucking quiet since the blonde Englishman left and he keeps closing his eyes against images of his cousin’s dead body, burnt and mangled the way Anna was.

 

He doesn’t want to burn another younger sibling’s body.

 

But they don't have a choice - Gordon’s boss remains elusive and Charlie is still struggling with the disk that Devereaux was working on. They don't know if the dead genius squealed on them or not; if _Alistair_ was the one to kill him, Gabriel has no doubt that he tortured him for information.

 

That Alistair got to him at all is worrying. He knows that Luci and Mikey know about the Sword’s existence, but he has no idea if they know of Cassie, Claire and Emma - he needs to know what they know.

 

They’ve been casting around in the dark, deaf and blind for far too long. He needs to up his game, needs to find out what the _fuck_ is happening back at the estate, which was why he didn’t protest when Baz announced that he was going back.

 

“What’s goin’ on here?” he asks abruptly, pushing the images away resolutely. “What’s got _you_ all riled up?” he waggles his eyebrows, “Hot date? I notice you didn't come home last night.”

 

She rolls her eyes, “Yes, actually,” she mutters, “But that’s not important right now.”

 

“C’mon, Red,” he wheedles, “She hot? Brunette, blonde? An animal in the sheets? Dish the deets!”

 

“What are you, twelve?” she snaps and he shrugs, pulling a lollipop out of his pocket to stick into his mouth. She ignores him and goes back to her typing.

 

“She’s blonde, if you must know,” she finally snarks, “And she’s beautiful, not an animal.”

 

It’s his turn to raise an eyebrow as she turns her laptop to him, pointing to the IDs she’s pulled up on screen. The first is of a young, golden-haired girl, looking like she’s barely out of her teens.

 

“That’s her,” Charlie points.

 

Gabriel whistles, “Damn, kiddo,” he grins, “Look at that rack.” She smacks his arm and he yelps, rubbing the hurt spot and glaring down at her.

 

“Don't be a dick,” she insists, “Look at this,” she clicks on the keypad, pulling up other faces and Gabriel frowns, leaning in closer to get a good look.

 

The man on the left looks like he’s in his twenties, fierce green eyes scowling at the camera from beneath a mop of golden brown hair that’s gelled back. He’s frowning angrily, the expression on his face one of utter irritation and disinterest.

 

The kid on the right is definitely still in his teens; floppy hair falling over his face. Intelligent hazel eyes peer out at the camera curiously, but it isn’t that which attracts Gabriel’s attention - it’s the sunken nature of his face, the tiredness of his eyes and the dark rings under his eyes.

 

He’s _seen_ that look before.

 

“Hunky,” he grunts, aware that Charlie is waiting for his response. “But I thought you were strictly pussy, Red.”

 

She huffs, smacking him again and he winces, rolling his eyes.

 

“Tell me you see it,” she hisses.

 

Gabriel falls silent, swallowing hard. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I see it. Who are they?”

 

Because the kid on the right is _definitely_ an addict; hang around them long enough, sell to them long enough and you can tell. Gabriel’s been doing this long enough.

 

“Dean,” she gestures to the man on the left, “And his brother, Sam Winchester.”

 

She clicks her keypad again, and a newspaper pops up. The headline is bright and bold and Gabriel feels his heart sink at the sight of it.

 

**_TWO HIGH-SCHOOLERS OVERDOSE BEHIND LOCAL SCHOOL BLEACHERS_ **

 

“What is this, Charlie?” he growls.

 

“I dunno, Gabe,” she murmurs, “I met Castiel today.”

 

“What?” Gabriel jumps up - what the flipping _fuck?_

 

“Gabe-”

 

“Why the flying flopper’s _fuck_ didn't you tell me?” he hisses, “What the hell is _wrong_ with you, Charlie, you’re taking unnecessary risks-”

 

“You put me in the same school to keep an eye on him,” she retorts, “Not like I wasn’t gonna meet him eventually.”

 

“Yeah, but meeting him outside like that?” he snaps, “Devereaux was _killed_ , we don't-”

 

“Don't tell me what to do, Gabriel,” she snaps. “I’m not a kid. And I sure as hell know how to take care of myself. Besides, I figured out what you and Baz couldn't fucking do in forever.”

 

“And what’s that?” he snarls - mother- _bloody_ -fucker, Cassie and Claire and Emma. Gabriel doesn’t know what or who could be following them, if his brothers have spies here - what if Charlie was followed? What if they figured out that Cassie is still alive?

 

How the hell is he supposed to keep them safe?

 

Pinching the bridge of his nose to stave of the oncoming headache, Gabriel glares at Charlie, who simply huffs and answers.

 

“How to get to Gordon’s boss,” she answers. “We use ‘em.” She points to the two men on screen. Gabriel’s scowl deepens, and he purses his lips.

 

“You're sayin’ Gordon was this kid’s supplier?” he asks. She nods.

 

“Police reports,” she says, “that you got from the Sheriff. Gordon’s been linked to a number of drug-related crimes around town, but she’s never had enough to make anything stick. She, of course, needs evidence. _We,_  on the other hand…” she trails off, looking at him.

 

“Don't,” he finishes. “Still not seein’ how we can get to his boss.”

 

“If Gordon was Sam Winchester’s supplier,” she says, “Kid may know something about the man he worked for.”

 

“What are the odds though?” he grunts. “How would we even geddit out of him? Can't exactly go around and ask him, and I doubt torturing a kid is gonna get anywhere.”

 

“I’m not sure yet,” Charlie answers, frowning, “Gimme some time, I’ll figure it out. But I don't think we really have other options.”

 

And Gabriel has to bite back a swear because she’s fucking right - Gordon’s place was trashed by the time the Sheriff got there. She, of course, assumed that it was his murderer; Gabriel knows better - it wasn’t Baz, it was the man Gordon worked for. His computer fried, his place cleaned out completely of any evidence linking him to anything.

 

It’s frustrating.

 

So he nods. “Fine,” he hmphs. “Do your thing.”

 

She hesitated and then continues, “There’s something else you need to know,” she says softly.

 

“What now?” he snarks, “You have other secrets you’d like to share with the class?”

 

She glares at him but doesn’t rise to the bait. “Sam and Dean Winchester?” she waves instead at the screen, “Castiel seems to be involved with them.”

 

“The fuck?” Gabriel scowls, “What?”

 

She shrugs. “Sam’s babysitting the girls,” she says, “Claire seems to have attached herself to Dean, and Emma’s connected with Sam quite a bit. It’s cute, watching those two girls hang off those hunks.”

 

She smirks but Gabriel doesn’t respond, still frowning.

 

“Castiel also totes has the hots for Dean,” she grins, “And Dean wants to bang him too. Dudes couldn't keep their eyes off of each other, the UST was killin’ me.”

 

Gabriel swallows; it’s one thing to know his brother is alive, to follow him from afar. It’s another to get the intimate details of his life, to know what’s happening - he hasn’t had that since he ran from the estate.

 

_God_ , he misses them.

 

“They’re fine, by the way,” Charlie murmurs. “Castiel is a cute dork and Claire and Emma are adorable.” She looks up, taking his hand and squeezing it gently. “They’re _good_ , Gabe,” she whispers again.

 

He looks down, for once unable to joke his way out. “Yeah,” he clears his throat. “Yeah, thanks, Red.”

 

Thanks, indeed.


	17. Dinner-table Epiphanies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Linda Tran calls Dean with a proposition for him; later, Castiel has an epiphany when Dean invites him to dinner. Mild angst, mostly domestic fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I missed my usual Sunday posting - AGAIN - but hey, here, have 5k of pure, self-indulgent domestic fluff to make up for it! *shoves chapter at you and runs away*
> 
> We're almost at the end of this fic now; I'm anticipating one, maybe two more chapters before I close. After that, this series will be on hiatus for a few months, unfortunately, till I finish a couple of other fics I'm working on for a few challenges, but I will return, never fear! 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS - Recollections/talk of drugs and rehab, prostitution, self-loathing, selective mutism, panic attacks, miscommunication

**Chapter 16 - Dinner-table Epiphanies**

 

Dean’s under the hood of a Camry when his phone begins to ring loudly. Startled, he jerks his head up, banging it against the car and he hisses in pain, irritated.

 

“Son of a bitch,” he snarls as his spanner falls to the ground next to him, cluttering loudly. Sighing, he grabs the damn thing and carefully moves out, straightening up slowly, feeling his spine crack with the movement. Fuck, but he’s been doing this too long - he needs a break anyway.

 

Across him, Bobby looks up from the paper he’s reading, distracted, before sighing and walking over to where Dean's phone continues to blare. He picks it up with a grunt and hands it over to the young mechanic.

 

"Take your damn lunch, idjit," he mutters. Before Dean can respond, he steps away, stomping back to his office, grumble under his breath. Dean sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, pressing the answer call button a bit too hard.

 

"Whossit?" he snaps, rotating his shoulders to relieve the tension that's built up from staying crouched in one position for so long.

 

The answer that comes is less than impressed with him. "Always a pleasure, Mr. Winchester," Dean stumbles at Linda Tran's voice, back automatically straightening at her cool greeting.

 

"Mrs. Tran," he answers hurriedly, heart leaping into his chest. "Is Sam alright? If he's-"

 

"He's fine," she cuts him off and he can almost hear the softening in her tone. Or he could be imagining it and she's getting ready to eat him - either way, Dean's still worried and he chews on his lip.

 

"I'd like you to come down to my office today," she continues without pause, "I have a proposition to discuss with you."

 

Dean's brows knit together in confusion. "Proposition?" he repeats.

 

"If you can take the rest of the afternoon off and come down to the school, please," she says briskly.

 

"I'll be there," he answers and she hang ups without another word.

 

Shoving his phone back into his pockets, he ducks into Bobby's office to let him know he's taking his lunch outside. The scowl on his face must be telling, however, because the grumpy old bastard stops him to interrogate him.

 

"You look like you seen a ghost, son," Bobby says and Dean sighs, raising his hands to rub his eyes. Honestly, he is tired and he knows it - despite the tentative peace between himself and Cas, he's been working himself ragged to try and pocket extra cash. Wiring Dad a whole grand, meeting Crowley's demands, not to mention the daily crunch of food and expenses... it's all built up to the point where Dean's savings account looks fucking sad, and Sam's applications to college are gonna be due soon.

 

The day at The Roadhouse was fun; it was just what he needed, actually, to unwind and relax in the presence of his family and their new friends. Emma's snark and Claire's lightning-fast exchanges with both him and Sam invigorated him - until he grabbed his spot behind the bar that very evening and went straight into bar-tending for the night while Sam dropped the kids off with their dad.

 

And he's been working nonstop since - suffice to say, his week has been putting one step in front of the other, only to be reminded that fucking _Christmas_ is around the corner and he's got too little to make this year's holiday anything resembling good.

 

So, no, it's not surprising that Bobby'd notice; he's actually waiting for yet another intervention from both him and Ellen, but so far they've let him go.

 

"Dean?" Bobby's worried call pulls him back to where the elder man is glaring at him from beneath his usual baseball hat and he shrugs.

 

"Principal Tran called," he pulls his phone out to point at it.

 

Bobby frowns, "Linda?" he asks and Dean blinks, nodding lightly. 

 

"Asked me to come down to the school," he hesitates, because fuck, he _really_ doesn't wanna take the rest of the afternoon off.

 

But Principal Tran knows his financial condition - she was there when Sam was mute, a formidable ally in the face of everyone who scoffed at the traumatized kid studying in an ableist school. She was there when Dean rushed him to the hospital after finding him behind the bleachers and he knows she suspects him doing not-so-legal things to get the cash he needs for Sammy but she's never once treated him differently or questioned him about it.

 

She wouldn't ask him to take an afternoon just like that - whatever this is, it isn't small.

 

So he grits his teeth, resigns himself to another sleepless week and asks Bobby, "Mind if I take the rest of the day off?"

 

He needs the hours, needs the cash, but Bobby doesn't protest.

 

"Go," he nods, "Make sure things are okay."

 

The undertone of _make sure Sam hasn't shot up again_ remains unsaid, even though it hangs heavy in the air. Dean forces a smile on to his face and shoves his phone and hands back into his pocket.

 

"Thanks, Bobby," he says quietly, turning back to the dressing rooms to change out of his overalls and head to the school.

 

He hurries through clocking out, grabbing his things and quietly sneaking away before Rufus or the others catch him. Principal Tran didn't sound worried, but the old memory is echoing at the back of his mind - _your brother is unconscious, he's OD'd, he needs the ER_ \- he can hear the phrases, the random words he hadn't understood then, but carried so much weight after Sam came out of the hospital later.

 

The school is deserted this time of the day, all the kids in class, probably waiting to get the hell home - or maybe that's just Dean projecting his feelings on to the empty halls that seem to almost mock him. Swallowing hard and straightening his back, he forces himself to stomp forward, heading for Linda's office, offering a nod to her secretary, before knocking on the door.

 

"Come in," her crisp voice echoes and he pushes the door open, stopping short when he sees Casper fucking Newman sitting in front of her, a strange expression on his face.

 

Oh fuck.

 

Fuck, fuck, _fuck -_

 

Did the man just out Dean to Principal Tran? Did the goddamned son of a bitch tell her that he's just a whore, that he's funding his brother's tuition by sucking a stranger's cock?

 

His breath shorts and he stiffens, thrusting his face into the air. _Fuck it,_ he does what he has to - Sammy's almost eighteen anyway, and he's -

 

"Hi Dean!" a somewhat familiar voice distracts him from his internal panic. He looks around in confusion to see Charlie Bradbury sitting next to Casper in one of her novelty t-shirts - Trek this time - and opens his mouth to respond.

 

"Uh-" he says uncertainly.

 

"Nice to see you again," she chortles, flashing the Vulcan sign for _live long and prosper_ at him. Still taken aback, Dean responds instinctively and she squeals in excitement.

 

"Ms. Bradbury," Principal Tran's voice is decidedly amused despite her warning tone and Charlie flashes her a quick grin before gesturing for Dean to come and join them.

 

"What's happenin' here?" he asks and Casper gives him that damned head-tilt - fuck, it's as hot as ever, and he swallows hard, caught between attraction, confusion and anger.

 

He doesn't think Casper - _Cas_ \- would tell a new teacher about Dean's nighttime activities. She doesn't even teach Sam, far as he knows. And even if he _did_ want to warn her about her junkie student, why would Linda Tran have her involved in what was to be the worst parent-teacher conference in history?

 

"Hello Dean," Casper's voice is soft, but firm and Dean steps forward, sitting down on the empty chair on his right that's clearly meant for him.

 

"As I said on the phone, Mr. Winchester," Principal Tran begins, "I have a proposition for you. These two," she waves at the two teachers, "make two teachers who can handle themselves in ASL. With you, we'd have three - and Donna makes four."

 

Dean blinks, "Uh, _what_?" he asks stupidly. "What're you talkin' about?"

 

Linda smiles softly.

 

"There's only so much I can do," she says tiredly, "To accommodate students of difference... Sioux Falls High has been on the straight and narrow far too long." She pauses and Charlie jumps in, practically vibrating with excitement.

 

"We wanna offer some ASL classes," she says. "After school, to be taken voluntarily for extra credit."

 

Dean's neck hurts as he whips his head around to stare at her in surprise.

 

"Yo-what?" he sputters. "And you want _me_? To _teach_?"

 

"You taught your brother how to speak again," Principal Tran says softly. He glares at her, conscious of Charlie in the background - Cas may know that Sam was selectively mute, but she doesn't and he doesn't like to talk about it.

 

Linda meets his gaze defiantly. They both know that he can't really hide it; Sioux Falls is a small town and Sam's mutism is a well-known secret.

 

"And I'd like to make this place more accessible," she adds. "I can't force interpreters into every class, but I can offer ASL classes to those who are interested."

 

"And you think kids will wanna learn ASL?" he snaps in disbelief. "From the grease monkey whose brother is the local ex- _junkie_?"

 

"Well your grease monkey ass is hot," Charlie snorts, "And Sam's not the first high school addict in this district."

 

"Ms. Bradbury," Cas interrupts stiffly, and she shrugs.

 

"Hey," she says flippantly, "I may not like your equipment, but I can appreciate beauty and symmetry when I see it," she peers at Dean's face, humming. "Look at those eyes - _fanfiction_ green, I'd say."

 

Despite himself, he feels a laugh bubble in his throat and he pushes her away gently. "Down girl," he says and she grins - he liked her at The Roadhouse and he likes her now.

 

But as much as he appreciates the stupidly naïve idea, he can't take the offer - he can't be a volunteer teacher when he should be working every minute to earn the cash to put Sammy through college.

 

"Principal Tran," he sighs, "I appreciate the offer, but-"

 

"We'd pay you," she interrupts. "All of you. You, Dean, would be a part-time teacher, not a volunteer."

 

He frowns, looking down at the file she pushes forward over the table to him, quickly skimming through it. His eyes widen at the offer - it's about the same amount of money he earns at Bobby's, which is really quite generous for a part-timer.

 

He does the quick math in his head; at present, he works at Bobby's till about five and then heads to The Roadhouse where he grabs a quick bite. He usually has a window of three-four hours in between both jobs where he crashes on Ellen's pool-tables (that he has to share with a stoned Ash more often than not) before tending the bar till about 1 a.m. in the morning.

 

While he needs the cash, he's also been hogging all the shifts in both spaces; if he takes this job, he's can relax a little on the bar-tending at least, and let some of the others have a go.

 

"And the school can afford this?" he looks up, his tone sharply.

 

He's still a little skeptical of the idea; not only are they expecting kids to be interested, they're using public money to teach a language most people didn't think twice about. Japanese or Spanish or even Latin classes would be welcome - who'd wanna learn _ASL?_

 

Linda's eyes gleam as she grins in response. "You leave that to me," she says. "I want my school to be a place for everyone, not just those who can afford it."

 

"I-uh..." Dean clears his throat, looking back down at the contract in his hands. "I'm..."

 

"C'mon, Deano," Charlie urges. "It's a good gig and you know it."

 

"Charlie," Linda scolds gently. She turns back to Dean with a raised eyebrow. "Why don't we talk it over?" she says kindly and he takes in a deep breath, nodding.

 

"This is what you'd have to do," she begins, sliding over another file - it's a basic syllabus outline. _She's been planning this,_ Dean realizes, f _or a while now, from the looks of it._ Against himself, he leans in, curiosity aroused, because they are _serious_ about this, they don't seem to be half-assing it or doing it as a token symbol of 'inclusivity' and 'difference' and all that other bullshit that fancy schools used to draw in more investors.

 

Maybe there is something to this after all.

 

*-*-*

 

When they finally get out at the end of the meeting, it's about an hour and a half later. Dean still doesn't look entirely convinced - Mrs. Tran's given them all a day to think it over - and Castiel would be lying if he said he wasn't apprehensive too.

 

But Charlie's excitement and Mrs. Tran's own quiet but fierce enthusiasm makes him smile; he's apprehensive, but unlike Dean, he's also hopeful. As a teacher, he's seen it - this is when perspectives and minds can be molded and changed. It's easier to convince a sixteen year-old kid to change his or her behavior than it is to convince a forty year-old who's set in their ways. So when the redhead stays back to have her own meeting with the principal, he leads Dean out, intent on convincing him.

 

"You should take this," he says quietly. Dean's eyes shoot up to his, brow furrowed.

 

"Why?" he barks, "Because I need the money?"

 

There's a bite to his tone, and the quiet accusation shimmers between them - Castiel doesn't care that Dean has to do sex work, only that he hurts himself each time doing it. But Dean himself seems to think he's less than worthless and it makes Castiel ache to hear the self-loathing in his tone.

 

"Because you'd be a good teacher," he answers honestly.

 

Dean stops, staring at him with wide eyes.

 

"Teacher?" he chortles, an angry snark to his tone that speaks volumes to his opinion of himself. " _Me_?"

 

Castiel meets his burning gaze head on, licking his lips at how beautiful - and how heartbreaking - his expression is.

 

"Yes," he says firmly. "I've seen you with kids," he reminds him, "And not just any kids... Claire and Emma haven't had the easiest of childhoods - you endeared yourself to them faster than anyone else I've ever seen."

 

"That don't mean I can be a teacher man," Dean retorts. "I _dropped_ outta high school. If Bobby hadn't bullied me into getting my GED..."

 

Castiel tilts his head in acceptance, but doesn't look away. "Degrees don't equal intelligence, Dean," he says. "And you'll never know if you're a good teacher or not if you don't even try it."

 

Because Dean _enjoys_ kids, Castiel can see it - it's obvious in the way he looks out for his brother, for Jo, even for Claire and Emma. He may or may not have the ability to teach well, but he connects with kids. At the very least, this job will provide him with some respite from the physical labor of his other two jobs.

 

Or so Castiel tries to convince himself. In all honesty, he wants Dean to take this job because _he_ wants to spend more time with Dean.

 

The ringing of the bell distracts them and Castiel looks up - he's got the last class of the day to teach, he recalls, swallowing a groan. _And_ he's staying back today to finish grading the second set of midterms he has to return this week.

 

"I have to get back to work," he tells Dean, who simply shrugs. "Please let Sam know that I've left a key for him under the doormat."

 

"Uh, extra key?" Dean blinks.

 

"For when he takes Claire and Emma home today?" Castiel reminds him. "I have to stay back to finish marking. Sam's babysitting, is he not?"

 

"Oh right," Dean nods. A moment of uncomfortable silence falls between them before Castiel breaks it.

 

"Well, I should head-"

 

"How about dinner?" Dean blurts out.

 

Castiel blinks, nonplussed. For a moment, he lets himself imagine it - dinner _with_ Dean, where they joke back and forth and then heading home after wine, soft kisses exchanged between them as goodnight -

 

"Are you asking me out?" he says, pushing the image away. By the Gods, it's seductive, and his heart thuds in anticipation of Dean's answer.

 

The younger man looks flabbergasted, instantly shaking his head. "Of course not!" he snaps and disappointment washes over Castiel like a cold wave, his stomach tightening at the utter disgust in his tone.

 

"I mean-uh, I-uh-" he stammers, rubbing the back of his neck.

 

"I apologize, I didn't realize dating me would be  _that_ repulsive," he says stiffly.

 

Dean's eyes widen and he shakes head. "Dude, you make me sound like a homophobic dick," he says sheepishly. "I'm bi myself, so... Sorry, it came out wrong."

 

Castiel sucks in a sharp breath - so Dean _does_ like men too. He doesn't often swear but... dear Lord, he is so _screwed_. He can almost hear Anna and Gabriel snicker in his head.

 

"And not that I'd be... uh... opposed to dating to you," Dean admits quietly.

 

Castiel's heart leaps to his mouth and he stares at the man, heart pounding so loud he's sure Dean can hear it. Before he can say anything though, the mechanic shrugs and continues.

 

"But I'm not looking for anything right now," he smiles, the curve of his lips a little bitter and a little sad. "Sam's my first priority... and I'm guessing the girls are yours?"

 

Claire and Emma - _shit_ , Dean is right. For the space of one glorious moment, Castiel allowed himself to want... but he _can't_ want, not now, not ever. Not as long as his brothers are out there, ready to torture and kill at a moment's notice.

 

Pushing down the disappointment that threatens to render him breathless, Castiel offers Dean a similar, bitter smile. "Indeed," he agrees. "I can ill afford a relationship at the moment."

 

"But..." Dean hesitates and then forges on, "We could be friends?" There's a hopeful smile on his face and it sets Castiel alight to see it.

 

He nods, "Aren't we already?" he teases gently and Dean's grin widens.

 

"So, as my friend..." he says, "I'm inviting you over for dinner. With the girls. How about Sam brings 'em back home and we hang there till you show up and then we can have dinner?"

 

Castiel ignores how much like a date that sounds - _Sam,_ he reminds himself, _will be there, as will the girls._ Dean isn't inviting him for a night of fun, at least not in the way his libido would like it to be.

 

"That sounds nice," he answers. "I must admit, I'm not one for socializing."

 

"Neither am I," Dean replies. "But... first time, right?"

 

Castiel nods, "Alright then," he says. "I have to get to class..." he hesitates, "Seven o'clock?" he asks uncertainly. "I have to stay in late to finish grading..."

 

"Seven sounds good, yeah."

 

"Yeah," Castiel echoes, refusing to admit that he follows Dean's backside as he walks away until it disappears.

 

*-*-*

 

What the _fuck_ is he doing?

 

Dean sucks in a deep breath to calm his racing heart as he pulls the Impala into park in front of the kindergarten. All Sam did was smirk at him when he told him of the invitation he's offered to Cas for dinner. Dean rolled his eyes, cuffed his brother's shoulder, dropped him off at home and headed over to collect the girls.

 

And now that he's here, sitting in the parking lot of the kindergarten, he can't help but think - the fuck was _he_ on?

 

How the hell had he asked Cas - _Casper_ \- to dinner?

 

_I wouldn't be opposed to dating you..._ he hears himself and bites his lip in response. Son of a bitch, but he sounded like an utter _idiot_. He all but admitted to Cas how attracted he is to him. And he told him he didn't want a relationship, implied that Cas would _want_ a relationship in the first place.

 

Can he be any more stupid?

 

Groaning, he bangs his forehead against Baby's steering wheel. She offers him no answers, but the horn goes off and he jumps back with a curse.

 

"Son of a-" he huffs, throwing the door open and sliding out. With a sigh, he closes it behind him - a bit too hard, but Baby can take it - and then slaps his palms together, rubbing them in anticipation.

 

"Alright," he breathes in deeply and then straightens his shoulders, walking out. The kindergarten and the preschool are side-by-side, and he knows the girls are probably with Donna, waiting for their dad - or Sam - to come pick 'em up.

 

The fuck is _he_ doing here?

 

The kids are already out, carrying bags half their sizes as they hurry forward to where their parents are. Dean's never felt this out of place ever - he's a grease monkey with motor-oil beneath his fingernails and he has drunk people throw up on his shoes on a semi-regular basis. He doesn't belong here with these soccer moms and their perfectly polished outfits and hairstyles.

 

As though she can hear him, a tall, thin, horse-faced woman gives him a dirty look - and Linda Tran wants _him_ to teach their snot-nosed brats?

 

He winces, turning away, intent on sending Sam back to pick the girls up -

 

"Dee!"

 

The familiar voice stops him short in his tracks and he turns back around. Before he can say anything, a small apple-topped bundle collides with his legs and he oomphs, going down on his knees. Claire bounds forward behind her sister and attack hugs him with the same ferocity. He can't help the loud chuckle that escapes him as he wraps his arms around both girls, pulling them close.

 

"Hey kiddo," he says, stepping back to ruffle Emma's hair. She pouts, hitting his hand away from her head and he rolls his eyes affectionately, holding his hands out to both of them.

 

"Da-ddy?" Emma looks around furtively. "Sam?"

 

"Just me today, kid," he tells her. Claire is smiling shyly, a soft blush on her cheeks and he has to hold back the teasing grin - it's adorable the way she saddles up to him and hides behind his legs.

 

_It's nice to see you,_ she signs. He winks back, taking their hands and walking them back to the Impala.

 

"You're hangin' out at my place today," he says, "Sam's already home and your dad'll join us for dinner later on."

 

"Yay!" Emma cheers and Claire rolls her eyes at her sister's exuberance. The look of long-suffering irritation is so familiar that laughter bubbles in Dean's throat - he swallows it, leading them both to his car.

 

It doesn't take him long to get them back to his house, strangely nervous at the thought of them seeing his run-down place.

 

Claire jumps out excitedly, waving at Sam, who's lounging around on the porch with a book. Before Dean can say anything, she's already raced off to him, and he bites his lip, refusing to admit how these little kids' opinions have already become so fucking important to him.

 

"Dee?" Emma's call pulls him back to himself and he looks down. There's an uncharacteristically shy look on her face, and she's biting her lower lip the way he himself does when he's nervous.

 

"Sup, kiddo?" he raises an eyebrow and she pauses, hesitating before forging on.

 

"You... Da-ddy's fwiend?" she asks. There's a hint of suspicion to her tone, but the look in her eyes is that of lonely concern and his heart aches for her.

 

She's entirely too smart for her age - and he wonders if these two have ever had the chance to be just _kids_.

 

Pushing the thought away, he shrugs, ruffling her hair again. She huffs, throwing up little arms and he pounces, pretending to growl at her. She shrieks, her look of irritation melting into helpless giggles as he throws her up, catching her easily.

 

"Yeah, kid," he admits. "Your dad's my friend."

 

"An' me?" she demands, kicking lightly at his stomach when he settles her comfortably on his hip.

 

"Do _you_ wanna be my friend?" he shoots back. "It's your choice, kiddo."

 

He holds his breath - son of a _bitch_ , how the hell have these two wormed their way under his skin so easily?

 

Emma pauses, considering it for a long moment. In that moment, Dean can hear it all - all the echoes he's been holding back - _grease monkey, junkie's brother, whore, slut, asshole_ -

 

"Yeah," she finally announces. A sunny smile splits her tiny face as she leans in to pat his cheek.

 

The breath rushes out of him, and he won't ever admit it, but _fuck_ , there's a prickle burning the corner of his eyes. He leans into her touch, savoring the feel of those tiny fingers against his stubble, before bumping noses with her.

 

"Well, thanks, kid," he says hoarsely. "I'd love to be your friend."

 

She giggles, kicking him lightly, indicating that she wants to be let down.

 

"Em!" Sam calls from where Claire's already cuddled on his lap, curiously peering into the book he's holding. Emma waves back, grabbing at Dean's hand without a second thought and dragging him with her. He goes willingly, heart six times its usual size as he watches Claire chatter away happily, her hands zooming about to tell them about her day.

 

And later, when he's teaching the kid how to mix the flour and the eggs to make brownies for their dad, he wonders...

 

_Can_ he be a teacher, after all?

 

*-*-*

 

When Castiel hesitantly knocks on door that evening, he’s greeted by a loud, familiar shriek and the pitter-patter of small feet. He hears a low growl and a soft laugh before the door flies open and Dean stands in front of him, face split into a wide grin - but that’s not what stops him short.

 

Because thrown across Dean’s broad shoulders, giggling helplessly, is not Emma as he thought, but _Claire_ , as Dean tickles her bare feet hanging over his shoulder.

 

She’s not speaking - but her voice…

 

By the Lords, when was the last time he heard her use her _voice_ for anything other than whimpering or maybe crying?

 

He’s forgotten what her laughter sounds like.

 

“Cas!” Dean grunts, ignoring the way he stands stiffly on his porch, back erect, a hot wetness burning through his eyes. “Look man, I’ve a monster across my shoulders,” he twists around on the spot, turning his back to Castiel, and Claire’s giggles increase in volume as she looks up at him from where she’s hanging off of his back.

 

_Hi Daddy!_ she signs, small hands flying about happily.

 

Castiel’s throat tightens, but he swallows, unable to formulate a response. Dean cranes his neck to look at him quizzically, smile fading and Castiel shakes his head.

 

“Lo-uh-” he clears his throat, “Looks more like a monkey than a monster to me, Dean,” he says. From Dean’s sharp look, it’s obvious that the hoarseness of his voice does not go unnoticed, but the mechanic tactfully doesn’t mention it, instead grabbing Claire’s hands.

 

He inspects them seriously and fakes a frown. “I think you’re right,” he announces, “Not a monster, after all… my bad, monkey.”

 

Claire pouts, fisting her hands against him and punching him lightly on the shoulder. Grabbing them back, she signs, _I’m not a monkey, I’m Batman._

 

Dean groans as her hands pound against his chest and pretends to double up in pain.

 

“My bad, Batman!” he calls, “Couldn’t recognize you without your gear.”

 

She nods, expression haughty, and Castiel can’t help but chuckle, holding his arms out. “Can Batman at least give her Dad a hug?” he asks and Claire’s smile widens. She kicks at Dean’s shoulders and he bends down, pretending to grunt and grasp.

 

“Damn but Batman is heavy,” he says theatrically, “My poor shoulders.”

 

Claire rolls her eyes, quickly punching his shoulders and running to Castiel, who lifts her up in turn, swinging her across like he hasn’t done in a while. She yelps and then dissolves into giggles, burying her face in his shoulder when he settles her on his hip; Castiel’s eyes burn - fuck, he’s _missed_ this, missed her voice _so_ goddamned much.

 

Claire was never a loud child, but she could make herself heard when she needed to… how did he _forget_ that?

 

The look on Dean’s face is knowing as Castiel turns to him, unable to say anything. “C’mon,” he waves towards where the teacher can hear Emma’s voice from the living room. “Dinner’s ready.”

 

“Uh, yeah,” Castiel follows him, grip tightening around Claire, who’s already leaning forward in anticipation.

 

“Da-ddy!” Emma cries from where she’s cuddled on Sam’s lap. The teenager has a book open next to him and he looks up, raising his hand in welcome.

 

“Hi, Mr. Newman,” he says and Castiel tilts his head to acknowledge him.

 

“I see you’re keeping busy, Em,” he  points to the book and Emma nods enthusiastically.

 

“Soos!” she grins and Sam chuckles.

 

“Dr. Seuss, I presume?” Castiel’s brow furrows. Sam nods, holding the book up - _The Sneetches_ has always been one of her favorites. Claire wiggles in his grip and he sets her down, watching as she clambers up to him, jumping on to the couch next to him easily.

 

_It’s honestly startling,_ he muses, _how attached both of them have gotten to these brothers._ Making friends is one of the biggest problems they’ve had wherever they go - now, not only is are they cuddled against Sam’s side, Claire is laughing out loudly at Dean.

 

She’s _speaking_ again, even if she isn't using words. 

 

Castiel wonders if the tightness in his chest will ever loosen, if the warmth will fade. He doesn’t want to jinx it, doesn’t want this moment to vanish - he can _hear_ Claire’s giggles, see Emma’s laughter, and Gods, but it’s been so _long_ since he just had fun with his daughters.

 

“You okay there, hoss?”

 

Dean’s voice is gruff and Castiel whirls around to see the younger man standing awkwardly behind him, an expression of concern on his face. He swallows, shrugging, quite unable to form the words.

 

But then, with Dean, he realizes, he doesn’t have to - Dean _knows_ what it’s like, being the parent responsible for a traumatized kid, who doesn’t speak, who hasn’t smiled in a long, long time. He maybe Sam’s brother, but Castiel already knows he’s much more than that; he saw this, watched Sam to relearn speaking, relearn language.

 

Sam was selectively mute before - he _speaks_ now.

 

And it occurs to Castiel that he’s given up on Claire ever learning to speaking again. He’s come to associate her voice with pain and agony, he’s forgotten what it was like when she would smile and chatter about things that made her happy.

 

The self-loathing wells up so fast, he feels light-headed. Stumbling back, he rests against the counter, closing his eyes and swallowing hard.

 

In the aftermath of leaving the estate, all he wanted was to smother her and keep her _safe_ \- in that zeal, he’s forgotten to keep them _happy_. Anna and Missouri told him not to shove his own trauma in Claire’s face, not to push her until she was ready; in all the waiting, he’s forgotten that he _needs_ to push her sometimes as well, that he needs to have faith in her even when she doesn’t have faith in herself.

 

He helped her speak with ASL, but he’s never once pushed her to use her voice again - and he doesn’t know if he can, if he _should_. If he pushes her to talk and she’s not ready, she could become even more traumatized than she is now, she could close up completely and all the healing she’s done in the past few years will vanish in the snap of a second. But if he doesn’t… if he gives up on ever hearing her voice again…

 

What kind of a parent does that make him?

 

“I-... I uh…” he stammers, turning away, turning his back to the girls and Sam, who are too distracted by Dr. Seuss to pay attention to the two men.

 

Dean raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment as Castiel suddenly leans against the counter and grabs the first glass he sees, briskly walking into the kitchen to grab some water - because he needs to breathe, needs to consider his options here and he needs _away_ from everyone for just a moment.

 

The mechanic seems to understand, because he doesn’t comment or stop the teacher, instead simply stepping aside and allowing him to collect himself. Sipping on the cold water, allowing it to cool his tight throat, Castiel looks around, taking in Dean’s house for the first time, trying to distract himself.

 

The impression of a dilapidated place from the last time he saw it fades; _the place is more lived-in than dilapidated,_ he realizes. The kitchen counter is cluttered with evidence of the lasagna Castiel can smell cooking inside the oven, dirty dishes in the sink. Across him, in the living room, the dining table sits in a corner, big and wide, already set in anticipation of the food - the plates, forks and knives are much better arranged than at his own place, that’s for sure.

 

Little odds and ends, knick-knacks lie around the entire house - Castiel can see a random assortment of tools tucked into a corner of the mantelpiece, far away from the girls’ reach and he looks over at Dean with a raised eyebrow.

 

“Tools on the mantelpiece?” he asks and Dean grins sheepishly.

 

“I forgot I had that lyin’ around,” he answers. “Haven’t exactly had kids around here for… well, in a long while.”

 

Castiel smiles, setting the glass back on the counter - he can breathe again, the panic having settled for just a while. He’ll need to fall apart later, he knows, need to call Missouri and ask her for advice, but just for now… he’s okay.

 

“Thank you, Dean,” he says sincerely. “For dinner and for…” he waves at his daughters reading on the couch with their babysitter. It’s approaching their bedtime, but they’re still happy and energetic and it’s makes him want to pull them close and never let them go. “For everything,” he finishes.

 

Dean shrugs, looking away, and Castiel notes the way his flush spreads down his neck.

 

“Nothin’,” he says. “You’ve got some well-behaved kids.”

 

Castiel chuckles, “Because you’re still new,” he tells him amusedly. “Wait till they get to know you a bit better - they’ll turn into monsters.”

 

Dean looks back, expression equal parts embarrassed and shy. “I’d like that,” he says softly. “To get to know ‘em I mean… and you?”

 

Castiel’s heart leaps and he can’t help the way his lips curve into a wide grin - _Dean_ wants to get to _know_ him.

 

“Me too,” he replies.

 

“Oi!” Sam calls from the couch. “We gettin’ food anytime soon, jerk? Or are we going to bed hungry?”

 

“Shut your mouth,” Dean calls, “And get your ass to the table bi-uh…” he fumbles, casting a look at Castiel and then the girls. Sam smirks, waggling his eyebrows and the elder Winchester rolls his eyes, turning back to get his gloves.

 

“Just get to the table, idjit,” he uses Bobby’s usual insult instead and Sam sniggers, setting the book aside. The girls clamber off his lap, racing to the table, where the teenager pulls chairs back for both of them.

 

“Dinner?” Dean gestures to the oven with mitt-covered hands and Castiel smiles.

 

“Don’t mind if I do,” he answers.

 

_And truly,_ he thinks a few minutes later when he’s sitting across Dean, next to Emma, who’s chattering about 'Dee' and his cooking, _he doesn’t mind, if this were to become a regular occurrence._

 

This feels good.

 

 


End file.
